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           ’Afterall,Hilda,’shesaid,’lovecanbewonderful:whenyoufeelyoulive,andareintheverymiddleofcreation.’Itwasalmostlikebraggingonherpart.

           ’Isupposeeverymosquitofeelsthesame,’saidHilda.’Doyouthinkitdoes?Howniceforit!’

           Theeveningwaswonderfullyclearandlong-lingering,eveninthesmalltown.Itwouldbehalf-lightallnight.Withafacelikeamask,fromresentment,Hildastartedhercaragain,andthetwospedbackontheirtraces,takingtheotherroad,throughBolsover.

           Connieworehergogglesanddisguisingcap,andshesatinsilence.BecauseofHilda’sopposition,shewasfiercelyonthesidleoftheman,shewouldstandbyhimthroughthickandthin.

           Theyhadtheirhead-lightson,bythetimetheypassedCrosshill,andthesmalllit-uptrainthatchuffedpastinthecuttingmadeitseemlikerealnight.Hildahadcalculatedtheturnintothelaneatthebridge-end.Shesloweduprathersuddenlyandswervedofftheroad,thelightsglaringwhiteintothegrassy,overgrownlane.Connielookedout.Shesawashadowyfigure,andsheopenedthedoor.

           ’Hereweare!’shesaidsoftly.

           ButHildahadswitchedoffthelights,andwasabsorbedbacking,makingtheturn.

           ’Nothingonthebridge?’sheaskedshortly.

           ’You’reallright,’saidtheman’svoice.

           Shebackedontothebridge,reversed,letthecarrunforwardsafewyardsalongtheroad,thenbackedintothelane,underawych-elmtree,crushingthegrassandbracken.Thenallthelightswentout.Conniesteppeddown.Themanstoodunderthetrees.

           ’Didyouwaitlong?’Connieasked.