He took her in his arms, and she nestled there, laughing and crying by turns, but happier than she had ever thought she could be. They talked of a great many things, but not again of Cicely's flight. Jim had banished that spectre, which, if it returned to haunt her thoughts again, would not affright them. They came no nearer to it than a speech of Cicely's, "I do love you, dear Jim. I love you so much that I must have loved you all the time without knowing it. I feel as if there was something in you that I could rest on and know that it will never give way."
"And that's exactly how I feel about you," said Jim.
Two swans sailed out into the middle of the lake, creasing the still water into tiny ripples. The air was hot and calm, and the heavy leaves of trees and shrubs hung motionless. The singing-birds were silent. Only in the green shade were the hearts of the two lovers in tumult—a tumult of gratitude and confident happiness.
The peace, but not the happiness, was brought to an end when the twins, relaxed from bondage, heralded their approach by a vociferous rendering of "The Campbells are coming." They came round the temple arm-in-arm. Cicely was drawing, and Jim looking on.
"Yes, that's all very well," said Joan, "but it doesn't take two hours to make three pencil scratches."
"Girls without the nice feeling that we possess," said Nancy, "would have burst upon you without warning."
"Without giving you time to set to partners," said Joan.
Cicely looked up at them; her face was full of light. "Shall I tell them, Jim?" she said.
"Got to, I suppose," said Jim.
"My child," said Joan, "you need tell us nothing."