While Nedda sat, long past midnight, writing her heart out in her little, white, lilac-curtained room of the old house above the Spaniard's Road, Derek, of whom she wrote, was walking along the Malvern hills, hurrying upward in the darkness.

The stars were his companions; though he was no poet, having rather the fervid temper of the born swordsman, that expresses itself in physical ecstasies.

He had come straight out from a stormy midnight talk with Sheila.

What was he doing--had been the burden of her cry--falling in love just at this moment when they wanted all their wits and all their time and strength for this struggle with the Mallorings?
It was foolish, it was weak; and with a sweet, soft sort of girl who could be no use.

Hotly he had answered: What business was it of hers?
As if one fell in love when one wished! She didn't know--her blood didn't run fast enough! Sheila had retorted, "I've more blood in my big toe than Nedda in all her body! A lot of use you'll be, with your heart mooning up in London!" And crouched together on the end of her bed, gazing fixedly up at him through her hair, she had chanted mockingly: "Here we go gathering wool and stars--wool and stars--wool and stars!" He had not deigned to answer, but had gone out, furious with her, striding over the dark fields, scrambling his way through the hedges toward the high loom of the hills.