He answered:  “Underneath the dark.”

Their eyes had met, and June cried scornfully:  “A London sunset!”

Egyptian cigarettes were handed in a silver box.  Soames, taking one, remarked:  “What time’s your play begin?”

No one replied, and Turkish coffee followed in enamelled cups.

Irene, smiling quietly, said:  “If only....”

“Only what?” said June.

“If only it could always be the spring!”

Brandy was handed; it was pale and old.

Soames said:  “Bosinney, better take some brandy.”

Bosinney took a glass; they all arose.

“You want a cab?” asked Soames.

June answered:  “No!  My cloaks please, Bilson.”  Her cloak was brought.

Irene, from the window, murmured:  “Such a lovely night!  The stars are coming out!”

Soames added:  “Well, I hope you’ll both enjoy yourselves.”

From the door June answered:  “Thanks.  Come, Phil.”

Bosinney cried:  “I’m coming.”

Soames smiled a sneering smile, and said:  “I wish you luck!”

And at the door Irene watched them go.

Bosinney called:  “Good night!”

“Good night!” she answered softly....

June made her lover take her on the top of a ’bus, saying she wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze.

The driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing a remark, but thought better of it.  They were a lively couple!  The spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the pavement with happy hoofs.

The whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could bring.  New-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky.

Men in, evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping jauntily up the steps of Clubs; working folk loitered; and women—­those women who at that time of night are solitary—­solitary and moving eastward in a stream—­swung slowly along, with expectation in their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or—­for an unwonted minute, of kisses given for love.

Those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the moving-sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from the stir of spring.  And one and all, like those clubmen with their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship under the passionate heavens.

Bosinney and June entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to their seats in the upper boxes.  The piece had just begun, and the half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all one way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces to the sun.