"Why, how do you do?"
"How do you do? I thought I should find Dr. MacLean. She's not in?"
"No, I'm sorry, but she's just run over to London for a minute. Will you leave a message?"
"If I may. Will you tell her, please, that you're the most glorious thing in the world and I love you?"
The last words were buried in the warm smoothness of Jean's neck. She turned her head and their lips met.
"Now, if you'll go and take off your coat and put on an apron you can help me make some Martha Norris biscuits."
Gregory did as he was told, and they got dinner together. Afterwards they went into the living-room where they had sat so often the summer before, good friends, disturbed in no way by the presence of the little doctor, and Jean wondered what power had arranged this summer, so far beyond her dreams. Mary in London, Margaret and Puck in Maine, beyond the reach of week-ends even. There was only Martha.
Deep in the leather chair, with Gregory's arms about her, his fingers moving gently over her cheek and throat, Jean wished that Martha would go away too. She wanted them all out of her life, every one, for the next three months. Beyond that she did not think.
It was perfect. So perfect that Jean marveled and was humble. The days themselves, the actual passing of time took on personality. As the givers of happiness, the hours became conscious. They were servants bringing gifts.