But neither he nor she had seen in allegory the darting thing with
devil's wings that dashed the little spirit of the moon into eternal
night. And out of the black void above, one by one, flakes from the
frail wings came floating.

To and fro they moved. She with both hands clasped and resting on his
arm, peering through darkness down at the flowers, as one perfume,
mounting, overpowered another--clove-pink, rocket, lily, and petunia,
each in its turn dominant, triumphant.

Puffs of fragrance from the distant sea stirred the garden's tranquil
air from time to time: somewhere honeyed bunches hung high from locust
trees; and the salt meadow's aromatic tang lent savour to the night.

"I must go back to town," he said irresolutely.

He heard her sigh, felt her soft clasp tighten slightly over his arm.
But she turned back in silence with him toward the house, passed in
the open door before him, her fair head lowered, and stood so, leaning
against the newel-post.

"Good night," he said in a low voice, still irresolute.

"Must you go?"

"I ought to."

"There is that other bedroom. And Mrs. Connor has gone home for the
night."

"I told her to remain," he said sharply.

"I told her to go."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted you to stay--this first night here--with me--in the
home of my youth which you have given to me again."