“You ought to have been up here.  They dropped two bombs close to the National Gallery; pity they couldn’t have destroyed a Landseer or two while they were so near!  There were either seven or eight killed and eighteen wounded, so far as is known.  But there were probably more.  There was quite a fire, too, but that was soon got under.  We saw it all except the explosion of the bombs.  We weren’t looking in the right place—­no luck!  However, we saw the Zepp.  What a shame the moon’s disappeared again!  Listen!  Listen!...  Can’t you hear the engines?”

G.J. shrugged his shoulders.  Nothing could be heard above the faint hum of Piccadilly.  The wind seemed to have diminished to a chill, fitful zephyr.

Concepcion had sat down on a coping.

“Look!” she exclaimed in a startled whisper, and sprang erect.

To the south, down among the trees, a red light flashed and was gone.  The faint, irregular hum of Piccadilly persisted for a couple of seconds, and then was drowned in the loud report, which seemed to linger and wander in the great open spaces.  G.J.’s flesh crept.  He comprehended the mad ecstasy of Queen, and because he comprehended it his anger against her increased.

“Can you see the Zepp?” murmured Queen, as it were ferociously.  “It must be within range, or they wouldn’t have fired.  Look along the lines of the searchlights.  One of them, at any rate, must have got on to it.  We saw it before.  Can’t you see it?  I can hear the engines, I think.”

Another flash was followed by another resounding report.  More guns spoke in the distance.  Then a glare arose on the southern horizon.

“Incendiary bomb!” muttered Queen.  She stood stock-still, with her mouth open, entranced.

The Zeppelin or the Zeppelins remained invisible and inaudible.  Yet they must be aloft there, somewhere amid the criss-cross of the unresting searchlights.  G.J. waited, powerfully impressed, incapable of any direct action, gazing blankly now at the women and now at the huge undecipherable heaven and earth, and receiving the chill zephyr on his face.  The nearmost gun had ceased to fire.  Occasionally there was perfect silence—­for no faintest hum came from Piccadilly, and nothing seemed to move there.  The further guns recommenced, and then the group heard a new sound, rather like the sound of a worn-out taxi accelerating before changing gear.  It grew gradually louder.  It grew very loud.  It seemed to be ripping the envelope of the air.  It seemed as if it would last for ever—­till it finished with a gigantic and intimidating plop quite near the front of Lechford House.  Queen said: 

“Shrapnel—­and a big lump!”

G.J. could see the quick heave of her bosom imprisoned in the black.  She was breathing through her nostrils.

“Come downstairs into the house,” he said sharply—­more than sharply, brutally.  “Where in the name of God is the sense of stopping up here?  Are you both mad?”