If you like you can take me down to the orchard wall, and we will watch the tide come in--" Mannering came out alone and looked around.

The full moon was creeping into the sky.

The breath of wind which shook the leaves of the tall elm trees that shut in his little demesne from the village, was soft, and, for the time of year, wonderfully mild.

Below, through the orchard trees, were faint visions of the marshland, riven with creeks of silvery sea.

He turned back towards the room, where red-shaded lamps still stood upon the white tablecloth, a curiously artificial daub of color after the splendour of the moonlit land.
"The night is perfect," he exclaimed.