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The waiter handed her her cloak, and they went out into the blowy dark night. She folded her wrap round her, and hurried forward with short, sharp steps. There was a certain Parisian chic and mincingness about her, even in her walk: but underneath, a striding, savage suggestion as if she could leg it in great strides, like some savage squaw. Aaron pressed his bowler hat down on his brow. “Would you rather take a bus?” she said in a high voice, because of the wind. “I’d rather walk.” “So would I.” They hurried across the Charing Cross Road, where great buses rolled and rocked, crammed with people. Her heels clicked sharply on the pavement, as they walked east. They crossed Holborn, and passed the Museum. And neither of them said anything. When they came to the corner, she held out her hand. “Look!” she said. “Don’t come any further: don’t trouble.” “I’ll walk round with you: unless you’d rather not.” “No — But do you want to bother?” “It’s no bother.” So they pursued their way through the high wind, and turned at last into the old, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like a savage wilderness in the heart of London. The wind was roaring in the great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep in a forgotten land. Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it slam to behind him. “How wonderful the wind is!” she shrilled. “Shall we listen to it for a minute?” She led him across the grass past the shrubs to the big tree in the centre. There she climbed up to a seat. He sat beside her. They sat in silence, looking at the darkness. Rain was blowing in the wind. They huddled against the big tree-trunk, for shelter, and watched the scene.