As though down a long avenue of distance he saw her in the perspective of her life: an exquisite gallant figure going about her brave concerns: so small and resolute in her single struggle with the world, and coming to his arms at last. He knew then that poets have not lied; that fairy tales are true; that life is hunger, and for every emptiness caters its own just food. Her mind that he had loved was tangled up with a body. Chastity was probably a much overrated virtue. For her sake, if she desired it, he was willing to make the heroic effort which is necessary to yield to temptation.
He held her close, in silence. Austere resolutions slipped away like sand in an hour glass. For an instant his only thought was a silly satisfaction that she must reach so far upward to meet his lips. His mind taunted him for thinking this.
“Dear fool, dear damned fool,” he said. “Yes, you’re just as you should be: lips cool and eyelids warm. And as soft as I always imagined. Oh, it’s not fair that any one should be so soft. Joyce, do you know why I had to have you here? It’s just a year ... you remember?”
“Yes. The day you were looking out of the window. How long it seems.”
“We begin to feel like a nice old unmarried couple.”
She laughed, her rare broken laugh.
“Oh, George, then it is really you. The Fourth you, I mean. I couldn’t quite believe it.”
Voices came down from the loft. First it was Martin:
... “That’s what I like about her. She looks as if she’s happy inside.”
Then Ruth, with a scornful snicker: