Again he softly kissed her.

‘We shall never go apart again,’ he murmured quietly. And she did not speak, but only pressed her hands firmer down upon the source of darkness in him.

They decided, when they woke again from the pure swoon, to write their resignations from the world of work there and then. She wanted this.

He rang the bell, and ordered note–paper without a printed address. The waiter cleared the table.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘yours first. Put your home address, and the date—then “Director of Education, Town Hall—Sir—” Now then!—I don’t know how one really stands—I suppose one could get out of it in less than month—Anyhow “Sir—I beg to resign my post as classmistress in the Willey Green Grammar School. I should be very grateful if you would liberate me as soon as possible, without waiting for the expiration of the month’s notice.” That’ll do. Have you got it? Let me look. “Ursula Brangwen.” Good! Now I’ll write mine. I ought to give them three months, but I can plead health. I can arrange it all right.’

He sat and wrote out his formal resignation.

‘Now,’ he said, when the envelopes were sealed and addressed, ‘shall we post them here, both together? I know Jackie will say, “Here’s a coincidence!” when he receives them in all their identity. Shall we let him say it, or not?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said.

‘No—?’ he said, pondering.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Their imaginations shall not work on us. I’ll post yours here, mine after. I cannot be implicated in their imaginings.’

He looked at her with his strange, non–human singleness.

‘Yes, you are right,’ she said.

She lifted her face to him, all shining and open. It was as if he might enter straight into the source of her radiance. His face became a little distracted.

‘Shall we go?’ he said.

‘As you like,’ she replied.

They were soon out of the little town, and running through the uneven lanes of the country. Ursula nestled near him, into his constant warmth, and watched the pale–lit revelation racing ahead, the visible night. Sometimes it was a wide old road, with grass–spaces on either side, flying magic and elfin in the greenish illumination, sometimes it was trees looming overhead, sometimes it was bramble bushes, sometimes the walls of a crew–yard and the butt of a barn.

‘Are you going to Shortlands to dinner?’ Ursula asked him suddenly. He started.

‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Shortlands! Never again. Not that. Besides we should be too late.’

‘Where are we going then—to the Mill?’

‘If you like. Pity to go anywhere on this good dark night. Pity to come out of it, really. Pity we can’t stop in the good darkness. It is better than anything ever would be—this good immediate darkness.’