She was very tired, too, now
that all excitement was over--so tired that she hardly knew what she did
or where she moved. But a smile had become so faithful to her eyes that
it clung there above the shadows of fatigue, and kept taking her lips
prisoner.
Between the two bronze busts she had placed a bowl of lilies of the
valley; and every free niche in that room of books had a little vase of
roses to welcome Miltoun's return.
He was lying back in his big leather chair, wrapped in a Turkish gown
of Lord Valleys'--on which Barbara had laid hands, having failed to
find anything resembling a dressing-gown amongst her brother's austere
clothing. The perfume of lilies had overcome the scent of books, and a
bee, dusky, adventurer, filled the room with his pleasant humming.
They did not speak, but smiled faintly, looking at one another. In
this still moment, before passion had returned to claim its own, their
spirits passed through the sleepy air, and became entwined, so that
neither could withdraw that soft, slow, encountering glance. In mutual
contentment, each to each, close as music to the strings of a violin,
their spirits clung--so lost, the one in the other, that neither for
that brief time seemed to know which was self.
In fulfilment of her resolution, Lady Valleys, who had returned to Town
by a morning train, started with Barbara for the Temple about three in
the after noon, and stopped at the doctor's on the way.
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