Garton went on: 

“Emotionally she would be wonderful.  She wants awakening.”

“Are you going to awaken her?”

Garton looked at him and smiled.  ‘How coarse and English you are!’ that curly smile seemed saying.

And Ashurst puffed his pipe.  Awaken her!  That fool had the best opinion of himself!  He threw up the window and leaned out.  Dusk had gathered thick.  The farm buildings and the wheel-house were all dim and bluish, the apple trees but a blurred wilderness; the air smelled of woodsmoke from the kitchen fire.  One bird going to bed later than the others was uttering a half-hearted twitter, as though surprised at the darkness.  From the stable came the snuffle and stamp of a feeding horse.  And away over there was the loom of the moor, and away and away the shy stars which had not as yet full light, pricking white through the deep blue heavens.  A quavering owl hooted.  Ashurst drew a deep breath.  What a night to wander out in!  A padding of unshod hoofs came up the lane, and three dim, dark shapes passed—­ponies on an evening march.  Their heads, black and fuzzy, showed above the gate.  At the tap of his pipe, and a shower of little sparks, they shied round and scampered.  A bat went fluttering past, uttering its almost inaudible “chip, chip.”  Ashurst held out his hand; on the upturned palm he could feel the dew.  Suddenly from overhead he heard little burring boys’ voices, little thumps of boots thrown down, and another voice, crisp and soft—­the girl’s putting them to bed, no doubt; and nine clear words “No, Rick, you can’t have the cat in bed”; then came a skirmish of giggles and gurgles, a soft slap, a laugh so low and pretty that it made him shiver a little.  A blowing sound, and the glim of the candle which was fingering the dusk above, went out; silence reigned.  Ashurst withdrew into the room and sat down; his knee pained him, and his soul felt gloomy.

“You go to the kitchen,” he said; “I’m going to bed.”

3

For Ashurst the wheel of slumber was wont to turn noiseless and slick and swift, but though he seemed sunk in sleep when his companion came up, he was really wide awake; and long after Carton, smothered in the other bed of that low-roofed room, was worshipping darkness with his upturned nose, he heard the owls.  Barring the discomfort of his knee, it was not unpleasant—­the cares of life did not loom large in night watches for this young man.  In fact he had none; just enrolled a barrister, with literary aspirations, the world before him, no father or mother, and four hundred a year of his own.  Did it matter where he went, what he did, or when he did it?  His bed, too, was hard, and this preserved him from fever.  He lay, sniffing the scent of the night which drifted into the low room through the open casement close to his head.  Except for a definite irritation with his friend, natural when you have tramped with a man for three days, Ashurst’s memories and