Their walk died away to a saunter, while the
street-lamps beamed upon them with longer intervals of dark between each
succeeding lampshine. More slowly still they moved towards West
Kensington and parting. Her arm was twined round his like ivy, and
their two hands came together like leaves. At last the turning she must
take appeared on the other side of the road, and again she ran and again
he caught her arm. But this time it was still warm with long contact and
divinely familiar, since but for a moment had it been relinquished. The
dim side-street enfolded them, and no dismaying passers-by startled
their intercourse.

"But soon it will be Trelawny Road," she whispered.

"Then kiss me quickly," said Michael. "Lily, you must."

It was in the midmost gloom between two lamps that they kissed first.

"Lily, once again."

"No, no," she whispered.

"But you're mine," he called exultantly. "You are. You know you are."

"Perhaps," she whispered, but even as his arms drew her towards him, she
slipped from his embrace, laughed very low and sweet, bounded forward,
waved her muff, ran swiftly to the next lamp-post, paused and blew him
kisses, then vanished round the corner of her road.

But a long time ago they had said they would meet to-morrow, and as
Michael stood in a maze all the clocks in the world ding-donged in his
ears the hour of their tryst.

There was only one thing to do for the expression of his joy, and that
was to run as hard as he could. So he ran, and when he saw two
coal-holes, he would jump from one to the other, rejoicing in the ring
of their metal covers. And all the time out of breath he kept saying,
"I'm in love, in love, in love."

Every passer-by into whose eyes he looked seemed to have the most
beautiful expression; every poor man seemed to demand that he should
stay awhile from his own joy to comfort him. The lamp-posts bloomed like
tropic flowers, swaying and nodding languorously. Every house took on a
look of the most unutterable completeness; the horses galloped like
Arabian barbs; policemen expanded like beneficent genii; errand boys
whistled like nightingales; all familiarity was enchanted, and
seven-leagued boots took him forward as easily as if he travelled a
world subdued to the effortless transitions of sleep. Carlington Road
stretched before him bright, kindly, beckoning to his ingress. Against
the lighted entrance-hall of Number 64 Michael saw the red and amber
sparrows like hummin