There was buoyancy in it; a fine, breathless sense of uplifting and exhilaration; a sensation as of bigness and a return to the homely, human, natural life, to the primitive old impulses, irresistible, changeless, and unhampered; old as the ocean, stable as the hills, vast as the unplumbed depths of the sky.
Condy and Blix sat still, listening, looking, and watching--the intellect drowsy and numb; the emotions, the senses, all alive and brimming to the surface.

Vaguely they felt the influence of the moment.

Something was preparing for them.

From the lowest, untouched depths in the hearts of each of them something was rising steadily to consciousness and the light of day.

There is no name for such things, no name for the mystery that spans the interval between man and woman--the mystery that bears no relation to their love for each other, but that is something better than love, and whose coming savors of the miraculous.
The afternoon had waned and the sun had begun to set when Blix rose.
"We should be going, Condy," she told him.
They started up the hill, and Condy said: "I feel as though I had been somehow asleep with my eyes wide open.