slopes of the hill below. The wind dropped in the cloudy, heavy
twilight, and the papers of the sandwiches did no more than rustle upon
her knees. Not prepared yet to light her car lamps, Fanny laid her torch
upon her lap, and its patch of white light lit her hands and the piles
of bread, cake, and fancy buns.

Across the road in the deeper gloom that dyed the valley and spilt over
its banks, a head rustled in the ragged border of twig and reed, and
eyes watched the brightly-lighted meal which seemed to hang suspended
above the vague shape of the motor car.

With a sense of being perfectly alone, walled round by the gathering
dusk, Fanny made a deep inroad upon her sandwiches and cake, finishing
with the apple, and began to roll up what remained in case of further
need, should no one come to fetch her.

She reflected that her torch would not last her long and that she ought
to put it and light her head and tail lamps instead, but, drowsy with
pleasure in her lonely dinner, she sat on, prolonging the last moments
before she must uncurl her feet and climb down on to the ground. The
torch slipped from her knee on to a lower fold of the rug, lighting only
the corner of a packet in which she had rolled the cake.

Suddenly, while she watched it, the gleam of the corner disappeared. She
stared at the spot intensely, and saw a hand, a shade lighter than the
darkness, travel across the surface of the rug, cover with its fingers
the second parcel and draw it backwards into what had now become dense
night. Her skin stirred as though a million antennae were alive upon it;
she could not breathe lest any movement should fling the unknown upon
her; her eyes were glued to the third packet, and, in a moment, the hand