"I can't say it, you know; but it must be rotten to be dead. Good-night,
old boy!"
Stirred and moved, Ashurst squeezed the hand, and went downstairs. The
hall door was still open, and he passed out on to the lawn before the
Crescent. The stars were bright in a very dark blue sky, and by their
light some lilacs had that mysterious colour of flowers by night which
no one can describe. Ashurst pressed his face against a spray; and
before his closed eyes Megan started up, with the tiny brown spaniel pup
against her breast. "I thought of a girl that I might have you know. I
was glad I hadn't got her on my mind!" He jerked his head away from
the lilac, and began pacing up and down over the grass, a grey phantom
coming to substance for a moment in the light from the lamp at either
end. He was with her again under the living, breathing white ness of the
blossom, the stream chattering by, the moon glinting steel-blue on the
bathing-pool; back in the rapture of his kisses on her upturned face of
innocence and humble passion, back in the suspense and beauty of that
pagan night. He stood still once more in the shadow of the lilacs. Here
the sea, not the stream, was Night's voice; the sea with its sigh and
rustle; no little bird, no owl, no night-Jar called or spun; but a piano
tinkled, and the white houses cut the sky with solid curve, and the
scent from the lilacs filled the air.
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