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"But eight o'clock doesn't count here, does it?" Terence asked, as they got up and turned inland again. They began to walk rather quickly down the hill on a little path between the olive trees. Terence walked in front, for there was not room for them side by side and though they felt more intimate because they shared the knowledge of what eight o'clock in Richmond meant, they could now only toss remarks backwards and forwards, and their conversation had come to an end. "Here's your gate," he said, pushing it open when they reached the villa, and as she passed through he stood in hesitation. She, too, paused. She could not ask him to come in. She could not say that she hoped they would meet again; there was nothing to be said, and so without a word she went up the path, and was soon invisible. Directly Hewet lost sight of her, he felt the old discomfort return, even more strongly than before. Their talk had been interrupted in the middle, just as he was beginning to say the things he wanted to say. After all, what had they been able to say? He ran his mind over the things they had said, the random, unnecessary things which had eddied round and round and used up all the time, and drawn them so close together and flung them so far apart, and left him in the end unsatisfied, ignorant still of what she felt and of what she was like. What was the use of talking, talking, merely talking?