Putting his hand to his side to still the beating of his heart, he stepped out on the terrace. Something soft scurried by in the dark. “Shoo!” It was that great grey cat. “Young Bosinney was like a great cat!” he thought. “It was him in there, that she⁠—that she was⁠—He’s got her still!” He walked to the edge of the terrace, and looked down into the darkness; he could just see the powdering of the daisies on the unmown lawn. Here today and gone tomorrow! And there came the moon, who saw all, young and old, alive and dead, and didn’t care a dump! His own turn soon. For a single day of youth he would give what was left! And he turned again towards the house. He could see the windows of the night nursery up there. His little sweet would be asleep. “Hope that dog won’t wake her!” he thought. “What is it makes us love, and makes us die! I must go to bed.”

And across the terrace stones, growing grey in the moonlight, he passed back within.