Chapter 17 - Page 2

follow. The atmosphere began to palpitate. Ivor put his
arm round Anne's waist, dropped his head sideways onto her
shoulder, and in that position walked on, singing as he walked.
It seemed the easiest, the most natural, thing in the world.
Denis wondered why he had never done it. He hated Ivor.

"Let's go down to the pool," said Ivor. He disengaged his
embrace and turned round to shepherd his little flock. They made
their way along the side of the house to the entrance of the yew-
tree walk that led down to the lower garden. Between the blank
precipitous wall of the house and the tall yew trees the path was
a chasm of impenetrable gloom. Somewhere there were steps down
to the right, a gap in the yew hedge. Denis, who headed the
party, groped his way cautiously; in this darkness, one had an
irrational fear of yawning precipices, of horrible spiked
obstructions. Suddenly from behind him he heard a shrill,
startled, "Oh!" and then a sharp, dry concussion that might have
been the sound of a slap. After that, Jenny's voice was heard
pronouncing, "I am going back to the house." Her tone was
decided, and even as she pronounced the words she was melting
away into the darkness. The incident, whatever it had been, was
closed. Denis resumed his forward groping. From somewhere
behind Ivor began to sing again, softly:

"Phillis plus avare que tendre
Ne gagnant rien a refuser,
Un jour exigea a Silvandre
Trente moutons pour un baiser."

The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor;
the warm darkness seemed to pulse like blood about them.

"Le lendemain, nouvelle affaire:
Pour le berger le troc fut bon..."

"Here are the steps," cried Denis. He guided his companions over
the danger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-tree
walk under their feet. It was lighter here, or at least it was
just perceptibly less dark; for the yew walk was wider than the
path that had led them under the lea of the house. Looking up,
they could see between the high black hedges a strip of sky and a
few stars.

"Car il obtint de la bergere..."

Went on Ivor, and then interrupted himself to shout, "I'm going
to run down," and he was off, full speed, down the invisible
slope, singing unevenly as he went:

"Trente baisers pour un mouton."

The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainly
exhorting everyone to caution: the slope was steep, one might
break one's neck. What was wrong with these people, he wondered?
They had become like young kittens after a dose of cat-nip. He
himself felt a certain kittenishness sporting within him; but it
was, like all his emotions, rather a theoretical feeling; it did
not overmasteringly seek to express