Hilda, behind the back of proud, silent George, pulled Edwin's face to hers and kissed it. And as she kissed she gazed at Edwin and her eyes seemed to be saying: "Have your works; I have yielded. Perhaps it is George's plan that has made me yield, but anyhow I am strong enough to yield. And my strength remains."
And Edwin thought: "This woman is unique. What other woman could have done that in just that way?" And in their embrace, intensifying and complicating its significance, were mingled the sensations of their passion, his triumph, her surrender, the mysterious boy's promise, and their grief for Janet's tragedy.
"Old Ingpen's waiting for his supper, you know," said Edwin tenderly. "George, you must show that to Mr. Ingpen."
BOOK II
THE PAST
CHAPTER XI
LITHOGRAPHY
I
Edwin, sitting behind a glazed door with the word "Private" elaborately patterned on the glass, heard through the open window of his own office the voices of the Benbow children and their mother in the street outside.
"Oh, Mother! What a big sign!"