They had strolled out after dinner in the warm May night, and had walked a little way up the steep flank of Lycabettos till they reached a wooden bench near which were a few small fir trees.  Somewhere among these trees there was hidden a nightingale, which sang with intensity to Athens spread out below, a small maze of mellow lights and of many not inharmonious voices.  Even in the night, and at a distance, they felt the smiling intimacy of the little city they loved.  Its history was like a living thing dwelling among the shadows, hallowed and hallowing, its treasures, like night flowers, breathed out a mysterious message to them.  They received it, and felt that they understood it.  Had the nightingale been singing to any city its song must have seemed to them beautiful.  But it was singing to Athens, and that fact gave to its voice, in their ears, a magical meaning.

They sat for a while in silence.  Nobody passed on the winding path.  Their impulse to solitude was unshared by the dwellers in Athens.  Neither knew exactly what thoughts were passing through the other’s mind, what aspirations were flaming up in the heart of the other.  But they knew that they were close bound in sympathy just then, voyaging towards a common future.  That future lay over the sea in gray England.  Their time in Greece was but an interlude.  But in it they were gathering up impressions, were laying in stores for their journey.  The nightingale’s song was part of their provision.  It had to sing to just them for some hidden reason.  And to Dion it seemed that the nightingale knew the reason while they did not, that it comprehended all the under things of love and of sorrow of which they were ignorant.  When he spoke again he said: 

“A bird’s song always makes me feel very unlearned.  Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes.  We’ve got to learn so much.”

“Together.”

“Yes—­partly.”

“Partly?” he said quickly.

“I think there’s a great deal that can only be learnt quite alone.”

Again, as sometimes before, Dion trod on the verges of mystery, felt as if something in Rosamund chided him, and was chilled for a moment.

“I dare say you are right,” he said.  “But I believe I could learn any lesson more easily with you to help me.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Perhaps we shall know which is right, you or I, when we’ve been much longer together,” he said, with an effort to speak lightly.

“Yes.”

“Rosamund, sometimes you make me feel as if you thought I didn’t know you, I mean didn’t know you thoroughly.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

Again silence fell between them.  As Dion listened once more to the persistent nightingale he felt that there was pain somewhere at the back of its ecstasy.  He looked down at the soft lights of little Athens, and suddenly knew that much sorrow lay in the shadows of all the cities of the earth.  There was surely a great reserve in the girl who had given herself to him.  That was natural, perhaps.  But to-night he felt that she was aware of this reserve and was consciously guarding it like a sacred thing.  Presently they got up and went slowly down the hill.