“They will be here directly,” she said, and taking a seat at one end of the rock invited me to sit down on the other edge. The afterglow was beginning to fade in the sky and a single star twinkled faintly through the rosy haze. A long wavering triangle of waterfowl drifted southward over our heads, and from the swamps around plover were calling.

“They are very beautiful⁠—these moors,” she said quietly.

“Beautiful, but cruel to strangers,” I answered.

“Beautiful and cruel,” she repeated dreamily, “beautiful and cruel.”

“Like a woman,” I said stupidly.

“Oh,” she cried with a little catch in her breath, and looked at me. Her dark eyes met mine, and I thought she seemed angry or frightened.