The nondescript evening in the hotel dragged out, and at last they had a nondescript dinner. Then Connie slipped a few things into a little silk bag, and combed her hair once more.

“After all, Hilda,” she said, “love can be wonderful; when you feel you live , and are in the very middle of creation.” It was almost like bragging on her part.

“I suppose every mosquito feels the same,” said Hilda.

“Do you think it does? How nice for it!”

The evening was wonderfully clear and long-lingering, even in the small town. It would be half-light all night. With a face like a mask, from resentment, Hilda started her car again, and the two sped back on their traces, taking the other road, through Bolsover.