“It must be late!” she exclaimed.

It was nearly eight o’clock.

“But eight o’clock doesn’t count here, does it?” Terence asked, as they got up and turned inland again.  They began to walk rather quickly down the hill on a little path between the olive trees.

They felt more intimate because they shared the knowledge of what eight o’clock in Richmond meant.  Terence walked in front, for there was not room for them side by side.

“What I want to do in writing novels is very much what you want to do when you play the piano, I expect,” he began, turning and speaking over his shoulder.  “We want to find out what’s behind things, don’t we?—­Look at the lights down there,” he continued, “scattered about anyhow.  Things I feel come to me like lights. . . .  I want to combine them. . . .  Have you ever seen fireworks that make figures? . . .  I want to make figures. . . .  Is that what you want to do?”

Now they were out on the road and could walk side by side.

“When I play the piano?  Music is different. . . .  But I see what you mean.”  They tried to invent theories and to make their theories agree.  As Hewet had no knowledge of music, Rachel took his stick and drew figures in the thin white dust to explain how Bach wrote his fugues.

“My musical gift was ruined,” he explained, as they walked on after one of these demonstrations, “by the village organist at home, who had invented a system of notation which he tried to teach me, with the result that I never got to the tune-playing at all.  My mother thought music wasn’t manly for boys; she wanted me to kill rats and birds—­that’s the worst of living in the country.  We live in Devonshire.  It’s the loveliest place in the world.  Only—­it’s always difficult at home when one’s grown up.  I’d like you to know one of my sisters. . . .  Oh, here’s your gate—­” He pushed it open.  They paused for a moment.  She could not ask him to come in.  She could not say that she hoped they would meet again; there was nothing to be said, and so without a word she went through the gate, and was soon invisible.  Directly Hewet lost sight of her, he felt the old discomfort return, even more strongly than before.  Their talk had been interrupted in the middle, just as he was beginning to say the things he wanted to say.  After all, what had they been able to say?  He ran his mind over the things they had said, the random, unnecessary things which had eddied round and round and used up all the time, and drawn them so close together and flung them so far apart, and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of what she felt and of what she was like.  What was the use of talking, talking, merely talking?

Chapter XVII