Clear stillness after the rain. She caught herself smiling at the noise
her boots made clanking on the tiles with the harsh, joyous candour that
he hated. He walked noiselessly, with a jerk of bluff knickerbockered
hips, raising himself on his toes like a cat.

She could see him moving about in her room, like that, in the half
darkness, feeling for his things, with shamed, helpless gestures. She
could see him tiptoeing down her staircase, furtive, afraid. Always
afraid they would be found out.

That would have ruined him.

Oh well--why should he have ruined himself for her? Why? But she had
wanted, wanted to ruin herself for him, to stand, superb and reckless,
facing the world with him. If that could have been the way of it.

Turn.

That road over the hill--under the yellow painted canopy sticking out
from the goods station--it would be the Cirencester road, the Fosse Way.
She would tramp along it when he was gone.

Turn.

He must have seen her looking at the clock. Three minutes more.

Suddenly, round the bend, under the bridge, the train.

He was carrying it off fairly well, with his tight red face and his stare
over her head when she looked at him, his straight smile when she said