'
Throwing on a cloak she walked out into the moonlit garden, and went
slowly down the whitened road toward the station. A magical, dewless
night! The moonbeams had stolen in to the beech clump, frosting the
boles and boughs, casting a fine ghostly grey over the shadow-patterned
beech-mast. Gyp took the short cut through it. Not a leaf moved in
there, no living thing stirred; so might an earth be where only trees
inhabited! She thought: 'I'll bring him back through here.' And she
waited at the far corner of the clump, where he must pass, some little
distance from the station. She never gave people unnecessary food for
gossip--any slighting of her irritated him, she was careful to spare
him that. The train came in; a car went whizzing by, a cyclist, then the
first foot-passenger, at a great pace, breaking into a run. She saw that
it was he, and, calling out his name, ran back into the shadow of the
trees. He stopped dead in his tracks, then came rushing after her. That
pursuit did not last long, and, in his arms, Gyp said:
"If you aren't too hungry, darling, let's stay here a little--it's so
wonderful!"
They sat down on a great root, and leaning against him, looking up at
the dark branches, she said:
"Have you had a hard day?"
"Yes; got hung up by a late consultation; and old Leyton asked me to
come and dine."
Gyp felt a sensation as when feet happen on ground that gives a little.
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