Pauline jumped in her chair with delight at this, but Mrs. Grey waved her into silence and said:
"And Guy's health, too?"
The Rector courteously saluted him; but the guest feared there was an undernote of irony in the bow.
After dinner when Monica, Margaret, and Pauline were preparing for a trio, Mrs. Grey said confidentially to Guy:
"You mustn't expect Francis—the Rector to realize at once that you and Pauline are engaged. And, of course, it isn't exactly an engagement yet. You mustn't see her too often. You're both so young. Indeed, as Francis said, children really."
Then the trio began, and Guy in the tall Caroline chair lived every note that Pauline played on her violin, demanding of himself what he had done to deserve her love. He looked round once at Mrs. Grey in the other chair, and marked her beating time while like his own her thoughts were all for Pauline. In the heart of that music Guy was able to say anything, and he could not resist leaning over and whispering to Mrs. Grey:
"I adore her."
"So do I," said the mother, breaking not a bar in her beat and gazing with soft eyes at that beloved player.
When the music stopped Guy felt a little embarrassed by the remembrance of his unreserved avowal; yet evidently it had seemed natural to Mrs. Grey, for when he was saying good-by in the hall she whispered to Pauline that she could walk with Guy a short way along the drive. His heart leaped to the knowledge that here at last was the final sanction of his love for her. Pauline flung round her shoulders that white frieze coat in which he had first beheld her under the moon, misty, autumnal, a dream within a dream; and now they were actually walking together. He touched her arm half-timidly, as if even so light a gesture could destroy this moment.
"Pauline, Pauline!"