“It’s extraordinary to think of sexual selection,” she said at last, looking up from her contemplation of the miraculous feather.
“Extraordinary!” Ivor echoed. “I select you, you select me. What luck!”
He put his arm round her shoulders and they stood looking eastward. The first sunlight had begun to warm and colour the pale light of the dawn. Mauve pyjamas and white pyjamas; they were a young and charming couple. The rising sun touched their faces. It was all extremely symbolic; but then, if you choose to think so, nothing in this world is not symbolical. Profound and beautiful truth!
“I must be getting back to my tower,” said Ivor at last.
“Already?”
“I’m afraid so. The varletry will soon be up and about.”
“Ivor...” There was a prolonged and silent farewell.
“And now,” said Ivor, “I repeat my tight-rope stunt.”
Mary threw her arms round his neck. “You mustn’t, Ivor. It’s dangerous. Please.”
He had to yield at last to her entreaties. “All right,” he said, “I’ll go down through the house and up at the other end.”