rella pine, which had been smitten into something
glorious, silhouetted against stars. Every now and then Scrap's eyes
lingered on Rose; so did Lotty's. For Rose was lovely. Anywhere at
that moment, among all the well-known beauties, she would have been
lovely. Nobody could have put her in the shade, blown out her light
that evening; she was too evidently shining.

Lotty bent close to Scrap's ear, and whispered. "Love," she
whispered.

Scrap nodded. "Yes," she said, under her breath.

She was obliged to admit it. You only had to look at Rose to
know that here was Love.

"There's nothing like it," whispered Lotty.

Scrap was silent.

"It's a great thing," whispered Lotty after a pause, during which
they both watched Rose's upturned face, "to get on with one's loving.
Perhaps you can tell me of anything else in the world that works such
wonders."

But Scrap couldn't tell her; and if she could have, what a night
to begin arguing in. This was a night for--

She pulled herself up. Love again. It was everywhere. There
was no getting away from it. She had come to this place to get away
from it, and here was everybody in its different stages. Even Mrs.
Fisher seemed to have been brushed by one of the many feathers of
Love's wing, and at dinner was different--full of concern because Mr.
Briggs wouldn't eat, and her face when she turned to him all soft with
motherliness.

Scrap looked up at the pine-tree motionless among stars. Beauty
made you love, and love made you beautiful. . .

She pulled her wrap closer round her with a gesture of defence,
of keeping out and off. She didn't want to grow sentimental.
Difficult not to, here; the marvelous night stole in through all one's
chinks, and brought in with it, whether one wanted them or not,
enormous feelings--feelings one couldn't manage, great things about
death and time and waste; glorious and devastating things, magnificent
and bleak, at once rapture and terror and immense, heart-cleaving
longing. She felt small and dreadfully alone. She felt uncovered and
defenceless. Instinctively she pulled her wrap closer. With this
thing of chiffon she tired to protect herself from the eternities.

"I suppose," whispered Lotty, "Rose's husband seems to you just
an ordinary, good-natured, middle-aged man."

Scrap brought her gaze down from the stars and looked at Lotty a
moment while she focused her mind again.

"Just a rather red, rather round man," whisp