"What is that?"
"That is a ray of sunshine."
"Silly," Jean whispered, and kissed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The dead year was buried in a flare of gold and scarlet. For a little while the gray sky hung low over the earth, and chill winds blew through the empty world. Then the gorgeous dead season was forgotten and winter settled in earnest.
Jean laid away the memory of summer. Again she met Gregory in the tea-room and they were happy in the isolation of the alcove. On Saturdays, when it snowed too heavily for tramping, they went to matinées and sat through many driveling plays. They rarely spoke of Margaret, but often of Puck, and now that this ghost was no longer hidden Jean was glad of the hot, lonely nights after Gregory's going. There was nothing that could hurt because there was nothing unknown.
The old feeling of power ran high in her. She was rapidly centering public interest in her work. Compared to the mighty tree which she and Mary had pictured in moments of enthusiasm, the Congress was a tiny root, but it was striking deep and in good soil. Jean was happy. She came sometimes to meet Gregory so radiant that even he, who had seen Jean in many radiant moods, was startled.
"You look like a Gloucester fishing boat under full sail," he said once, when Jean came hurrying up late for a matinée.
"Well, I can't say that you flatter."
"But a Gloucester boat is the finest thing that floats. It has wonderful lines, and when it comes down the bay with all sails set——"