Sanderson brought her shawl and helped to arrange the chairs; she thanked him in her old-fashioned, gentle way, declining the lamps which he had offered to light.  “They attract the moths and insects so, I think!”

The three of them sat there in the gloaming.  Mr. Bittacy’s white moustache and his wife’s yellow shawl gleaming at either end of the little horseshoe, Sanderson with his wild black hair and shining eyes midway between them.  The painter went on talking softly, continuing evidently the conversation begun with his host beneath the cedar.  Mrs. Bittacy, on her guard, listened—­uneasily.

“For trees, you see, rather conceal themselves in daylight.  They reveal themselves fully only after sunset.  I never know a tree,” he bowed here slightly towards the lady as though to apologize for something he felt she would not quite understand or like, “until I’ve seen it in the night.  Your cedar, for instance,” looking towards her husband again so that Mrs. Bittacy caught the gleaming of his turned eyes, “I failed with badly at first, because I did it in the morning.  You shall see to-morrow what I mean—­that first sketch is upstairs in my portfolio; it’s quite another tree to the one you bought.  That view”—­he leaned forward, lowering his voice—­“I caught one morning about two o’clock in very faint moonlight and the stars.  I saw the naked being of the thing—­”

“You mean that you went out, Mr. Sanderson, at that hour?” the old lady asked with astonishment and mild rebuke.  She did not care particularly for his choice of adjectives either.

“I fear it was rather a liberty to take in another’s house, perhaps,” he answered courteously.  “But, having chanced to wake, I saw the tree from my window, and made my way downstairs.”

“It’s a wonder Boxer didn’t bit you; he sleeps loose in the hall,” she said.

“On the contrary.  The dog came out with me.  I hope,” he added, “the noise didn’t disturb you, though it’s rather late to say so.  I feel quite guilty.”  His white teeth showed in the dusk as he smiled.  A smell of earth and flowers stole in through the window on a breath of wandering air.

Mrs. Bittacy said nothing at the moment.  “We both sleep like tops,” put in her husband, laughing.  “You’re a courageous man, though, Sanderson, and, by Jove, the picture justifies you.  Few artist would have taken so much trouble, though I read once that Holman Hunt, Rossetti, or some one of that lot, painted all night in his orchard to get an effect of moonlight that he wanted.”

He chattered on.  His wife was glad to hear his voice; it made her feel more easy in her mind.  But presently the other held the floor again, and her thoughts grew darkened and afraid.  Instinctively she feared the influence on her husband.  The mystery and wonder that lie in woods, in forests, in great gatherings of trees everywhere, seemed so real and present while he talked.