The street lamps outside the pub cast restless lights and shadows up into the labyrinth of branches of an old tree.
The twigs already had a shimmer of green and in tbe flickering uncertain light from below the tree appeared even bigger and taller, as if its top were lost in the gloom up there—like some enormous, outstretched hand, in an immensity' of desire grasping the sky.
Patricia Hollmann gave a slight shiver.
"Are you cold?" I asked.
She turned up her collar and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her fur jacket.
"It's only momentary.
It was pretty warm in there."
"You are too lightly clad," said I. "It is still cold at night."
She shook her head.
"I don't like wearing heavy things.
It will be nice when it gets really warm again.
I can't bear cold.
At any rate not in the town."
"It is warmer in the Cadillac," said I. "I took the precaution of bringing a rug."
I helped her into the car and spread the rug over her knees.
She drew them high up.
"Grand!
Now I'm quite warm.
Cold makes you miserable."
"Not only cold." I turned to the wheel. "Now shall we go for a jaunt?"
She nodded.
"I'd like it."
"Where to?"
"Just slowly along the road.
It doesn't matter where."
"Right."
I started the engine and we drove slowly and planless through the city.
It was the hour when the evening traffic was at its thickest.
We slipped almost inaudibly through, the engine ran so sweetly.
The car might have been a ship gliding soundlessly along the gay canals of life.
The streets drifted by—bright doorways, lights, rows of street lamps, the sweet mild evening effervescence of life, the gentle fever of the lighted night, and, over all, between the roofs of the houses, the great, iron-grey sky, against which the city flung its light.
The girl sat silent beside me; brightness and shadow through the window glided across her face.
I glanced at her occasionally; she reminded me again of the evening when I had first seen her.
Her expression had become graver, she appeared stranger than before, but very beautiful; it was the same expression that had moved me then and had not let me go.
It seemed to me as if there were in it something of the secret of quietness that things have that are near to nature—trees, clouds, animals—and occasionally a woman.
We had reached the quieter streets of the suburbs.
The wind grew stronger. It seemed to be driving the night before it.
At a large square, about which little houses were sleeping in little gardens, I stopped the car.
Patricia Hollmann made a movement as if she were awakening.
"It's lovely, that," said she after a while. "If I had a car, I would drive about slowly like that every evening.
There is something unreal in gliding along so noiselessly.
One is awake and dreaming at the same time.
I can imagine that one would not want, then, any human being of an evening—"
I took a packet of cigarettes from my pocket.
"One needs something of an evening, eh?"
She nodded.
"Of an evening, yes. It is a queer thing, when it turns dark."
I tore open the packet.
"They are American cigarettes, do you like them?"
"Yes, better than any."