'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.'
She sat wondering.
The car lurched and swayed.
She knew there was no leaving him, the darkness held them both and contained them, it was not to be surpassed Besides she had a full mystic knowledge of his suave loins of darkness, dark-clad and suave, and in this knowledge there was some of the inevitability and the beauty of fate, fate which one asks for, which one accepts in full.
He sat still like an Egyptian Pharoah, driving the car.
He felt as if he were seated in immemorial potency, like the great carven statues of real Egypt, as real and as fulfilled with subtle strength, as these are, with a vague inscrutable smile on the lips.
He knew what it was to have the strange and magical current of force in his back and loins, and down his legs, force so perfect that it stayed him immobile, and left his face subtly, mindlessly smiling.
He knew what it was to be awake and potent in that other basic mind, the deepest physical mind.
And from this source he had a pure and magic control, magical, mystical, a force in darkness, like electricity.
It was very difficult to speak, it was so perfect to sit in this pure living silence, subtle, full of unthinkable knowledge and unthinkable force, upheld immemorially in timeless force, like the immobile, supremely potent Egyptians, seated forever in their living, subtle silence.
'We need not go home,' he said. 'This car has seats that let down and make a bed, and we can lift the hood.'
She was glad and frightened. She cowered near to him.
'But what about them at home?' she said.
'Send a telegram.'
Nothing more was said.
They ran on in silence.
But with a sort of second consciousness he steered the car towards a destination.
For he had the free intelligence to direct his own ends.
His arms and his breast and his head were rounded and living like those of the Greek, he had not the unawakened straight arms of the Egyptian, nor the sealed, slumbering head.
A lambent intelligence played secondarily above his pure Egyptian concentration in darkness.
They came to a village that lined along the road.
The car crept slowly along, until he saw the post-office.
Then he pulled up.
'I will send a telegram to your father,' he said. 'I will merely say "spending the night in town," shall I?'