They spoke of Monk-land, and Miltoun’s illness; of his first speech, his impressions of the House of Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier, the river.  He told her of his health, and described his days down by the sea.  She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera; and how she had found a picture in the National Gallery which reminded her of him.  To all these trivial things and countless others, the tone of their voices—­soft, almost murmuring, with a sort of delighted gentleness—­gave a high, sweet importance, a halo that neither for the world would have dislodged from where it hovered.

It was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment to break the calm of that sacred feeling in both their hearts.  They parted with another tranquil look, which seemed to say:  ’It is well with us—­we have drunk of happiness.’

And in this same amazing calm Miltoun remained after he had gone away, till about half-past nine in the evening, he started forth, to walk down to the House.  It was now that sort of warm, clear night, which in the country has firefly magic, and even over the Town spreads a dark glamour.  And for Miltoun, in the delight of his new health and well-being, with every sense alive and clean, to walk through the warmth and beauty of this night was sheer pleasure.  He passed by way of St. James’s Park, treading down the purple shadows of plane-tree leaves into the pools of lamplight, almost with remorse—­so beautiful, and as if alive, were they.  There were moths abroad, and gnats, born on the water, and scent of new-mown grass drifted up from the lawns.  His heart felt light as a swallow he had seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather, carrying it along, letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it again.  Such was his elation, this beautiful night!  Nearing the House of Commons, he thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward to the river:  On that warm evening the water, without movement at turn of tide, was like the black, snake-smooth hair of Nature streaming out on her couch of Earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand.  Far away on the further; bank throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as yet.  A few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest with pallor the gleam of the lamps.  Scarcely anyone passed.  Miltoun strolled along the river wall, then crossed, and came back in front of the Mansions where she lived.  By the railing he stood still.  In the sitting-room of her little flat there was no light, but the casement window was wide open, and the crown of white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill still gleamed out in the darkness like a crescent moon lying on its face.  Suddenly, he saw two pale hands rise—­one on either side of that bowl, lift it, and draw it in.  And he quivered, as though they had touched him.  Again those two hands came floating up; they were parted now by darkness; the moon of flowers was gone, in its place had been set handfuls of purple or crimson blossoms.  And a puff of warm air rising quickly out of the night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so that he held his breath for fear of calling out her name.