"Darling, they are to be married early in August," she cried.
He caught her to him and kissed her, lest in the first poignant realization of other people's joy she might seem to be escaping from him utterly.
Guy had a few minutes with Margaret before he went home that evening, and they walked beside the tulip borders, she tall and dark and self-contained in the fading light being strangely suited by association with such flowers.
"Dear Margaret," he said, "I want to tell you how tremendously I like Richard. Now that sounds patronizing. But I'm speaking quite humbly. These sort of Englishmen have been celebrated enough perhaps, and lately there's been a tendency to laugh at them, but, my God, what is there on earth like the Richards of England? Margaret, you once very rightly reproved me for putting Pauline in a silver frame, do let me risk your anger and beg you never to put yourself in a silver frame from which to look out at Richard."
"You do rather understand me, don't you?" she said offering him her hand.
"Help Pauline and me," he begged.
"Haven't I always helped you?"
"Not always, but you will now that you yourself are no longer uncertain about your future. The moment you find yourself perfectly happy you'll be longing for everyone else to be the same."
"But how haven't I helped you?" she persisted.
"It would be difficult to explain in definite words. But I don't think my idea of your attitude toward us could have been entirely invented by my fancy."