CHAPTER IXOne night, under those trees, Hilary and Dora sat until very late, talking. It was a smothering hot night in early June; the day had been cruelly oppressive everywhere, and before supper the girls had gone up the river to the bridge, with a hundred or more exhausted neighbours, for a swim.
Cool and comfortable, they had later shared their supper in the garden; now a hot moon was sailing across the metallic dark blue of the relentlessly clear heavens, and great blots of lacy shadow fell upon the grass and the uneven bricks of the walk. The face of the little house looked charming in the uneven light; its primitive lines and steep roof suggested the picturesque past to Hilary’s dreamy eyes. She fancied hoop-skirts moving in and out of that plain, fan-lighted door, or earlier still
