Elsbeth envied him his inches. For Alwynne's sake she did not intend to be dominated; but she found his mere masculinity a little overpowering, and did not guess that her frail dignity had made its own impression.
She smiled back at him.
"I'm glad you put that in. You should respect grey hairs."
"But I do."
"No. You imply that I'm a very blind and foolish guardian! My dear boy," her pretty voice shook a little, "I've hoped and prayed for this. You, John's boy, and—and dear Rosemary's, of course—and Alwynne, who's dearer to me than a daughter! Why, that's why I sent her down to Dene!" She blushed the rare blush of later middle age. "Oh, my dear—it was shameless! I was matchmaking! I was! And I've always considered it so indelicate. But I wished so strongly that you two might come together. When Alwynne wrote of you so often, I hoped: and then your letters made me sure. You had got on so well without me these twenty-five years—and then to feel the ties of kinship so very strongly all of a sudden—it was transparent, Roger."
He laughed.
"I hadn't forgotten really—though it's the vaguest memory. You gave me a rabbit in a green cabbage that opened. And one Sunday we shared Prayer Books. You had a blue dress—a pale blue that one never sees nowadays, and very pink cheeks."
"Ah! the crêpe de Chine," said Elsbeth absently.
"I always remembered—though I'd forgotten I did. Alwynne brought it back. She's like you in some ways, you know. She made me awfully curious to see you again. From the way she talked I knew you'd be decent to me." He smiled. "Elsbeth—I'm tremendously in love."
"Have you told her so?"