they walked in that strange, miserable silence, past all those benches and couples, out on the river-path by the fields, where the scent of hay-stacks, and the freshness from the early stubbles and the grasses webbed with dew, overpowered the faint reek of the river mud.  And still on and on in the moonlight that haunted through the willows.  At their footsteps the water-rats scuttled down into the water with tiny splashes; a dog barked somewhere a long way off; a train whistled; a frog croaked.  From the stubbles and second crops of sun-baked clover puffs of warm air kept stealing up into the chillier air beneath the willows.  Such moonlit nights never seem to sleep.  And there was a kind of triumph in the night’s smile, as though it knew that it ruled the river and the fields, ruled with its gleams the silent trees that had given up all rustling.  Suddenly Derek said: 

“He’s walking with us!  Look!  Over there!”

And for a second there did seem to Nedda a dim, gray shape moving square and dogged, parallel with them at the stubble edges.  Gasping out: 

“Oh, no; don’t frighten me!  I can’t bear it tonight!” She hid her face against his shoulder like a child.  He put his arm round her and she pressed her face deep into his coat.  This ghost of Bob Tryst holding him away from her!  This enemy!  This uncanny presence!  She pressed closer, closer, and put her face up to his.  It was wonderfully lonely, silent, whispering, with the moongleams slipping through the willow boughs into the shadow where they stood.  And from his arms warmth stole through her!  Closer and closer she pressed, not quite knowing what she did, not quite knowing anything but that she wanted him never to let her go; wanted his lips on hers, so that she might feel his spirit pass, away from what was haunting it, into hers, never to escape.  But his lips did not come to hers.  They stayed drawn back, trembling, hungry-looking, just above her lips.  And she whispered: 

“Kiss me!”

She felt him shudder in her arms, saw his eyes darken, his lips quiver and quiver, as if he wanted them to, but they would not.  What was it?  Oh, what was it?  Wasn’t he going to kiss her—­not to kiss her?  And while in that unnatural pause they stood, their heads bent back among the moongleams and those willow shadows, there passed through Nedda such strange trouble as she had never known.  Not kiss her!  Not kiss her!  Why didn’t he?  When in her blood and in the night all round, in the feel of his arms, the sight of his hungry lips, was something unknown, wonderful, terrifying, sweet!  And she wailed out: 

“I want you—­I don’t care—­I want you!” She felt him sway, reel, and clutch her as if he were going to fall, and all other feeling vanished in the instinct of the nurse she had already been to him.  He was ill again!  Yes, he was ill!  And she said: 

“Derek—­don’t!  It’s all right.  Let’s walk on quietly!”