road.

"I wish I knew what to do, Emmy," he said at last. "I hate forcing my
company upon you, and yet I feel I should be doing wrong to leave you
unprotected. You see, I should not be able to face Zora."

"You had better face her as late as possible," she replied quickly.
"Perhaps you had better walk to the station with me. Would you?"

"It would ease my mind."

"All right. Only, for God's sake, don't chatter. I don't want you of all
people to get on my nerves."

"Let me carry your bag," said Septimus, "and you had better have my
stick."

The process of transference brought to his consciousness the fact of his
bareheadedness. He put on his cap and they trudged along the road like
gipsy man and wife, saying not a word to each other. For two miles they
proceeded thus, sometimes in utter blackness when the road wound between
thick oak plantations, sometimes in the lesser dimness of the open when it
passed by the rolling fields; and not a sign of human life disturbed the
country stillness. Then they turned into the London road and passed through
a village. Lights were in the windows. One cottage door stood open. A shaft
of light streamed across Emmy's face, and Septimus caught a glimpse of
drawn and haggard misery. They went on for another mile. Now and then a
laborer passed them with an unsurprised greeting. A milkcart rattled by and
then all was silence again. Gradually the stars lost brilliance.