"Oh, these sunsets!" were Rosamund's first words, when they had
moved a few steps together.
"They used to be my delight when I lived there," Will replied,
pointing eastward.
"Show me just where it was, will you?"
They turned, and went as far as Chelsea Bridge, where Warburton
pointed out the windows of his old flat.
"You were very happy there?" said Rosamund.
"Happy--? Not unhappy, at all events. Yes, in a way I enjoyed my
life; chiefly because I didn't think much about it."
"Look at the sky, now."
The sun had gone down in the duskily golden haze that hung above the
river's vague horizon. Above, on the violet sky, stood range over
range of pleated clouds, their hue the deepest rose, shading to
purple in the folds.
"In other countries," continued the soft, murmuring voice, "I have
never seen a sky like that. I love this London!"
"As I used to," said Warburton, "and shall again."
They loitered back past Chelsea Hospital, exchanging brief,
insignificant sentences. Then for many minutes neither spoke, and in
this silence they came to the foot of Oakley Street, where again
they stood gazing at the sky. Scarcely changed in form, the western
clouds had shed their splendour, and were now so coldly pale that
one would have imagined them stricken with moonlight; but no moon
had risen, only in a clear space of yet blue sky glistened the
evening star.
"I must go in," said Rosamund abruptly, as though starting from a
dream.
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