His gaze was as still as her very self; her look at him had
in at the quietude of all emotion.
When they' sat down to talk it was as if they had gone back to those
days at Monkland, when he had come to her so often to discuss everything
in heaven and earth. And yet, over that tranquil eager drinking--in of
each other's presence, hovered a sort of awe. It was the mood of morning
before the sun has soared. The dew-grey cobwebs enwrapped the flowers
of their hearts--yet every prisoned flower could be seen. And he and she
seemed looking through that web at the colour and the deep-down forms
enshrouded so jealously; each feared too much to unveil the other's
heart. They were like lovers who, rambling in a shy wood, never dare
stay their babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest
in the deep waters of a kiss their star of all that is to come should
fall and be drowned. To each hour its familiar--and the spirit of that
hour was the spirit of the white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill
above her head.
They spoke of Monk-land, and Miltoun's illness; of his first speech, his
impressions of the House of Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier, the
river. He told her of his health, and described his days down by the
sea. She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not
interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera; and how she
had found a picture in the National Gallery which reminded her of him.
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