The clock was striking two, as they reached Tom quad, and the decrescent moon to contradict him was already above the roofs. They strolled over to the fountain and stood there captured by loveliness, silent themselves and listening to the talk and laughter of shimmering figures that reached them subdued and intermittent from the flagged terraces in the distance.
“I suppose,” said Stella suddenly, “you’re very fond of Alan?”
“Rather, of course I am.”
“So am I.”
Then she blushed, and her cheeks were very crimson in the moonlight. Michael had never seen her blush like this, had never been aware before of her maidenhood that now flooded his consciousness like a bouquet of roses. Hitherto she had always been for Michael a figure untouched by human weakness. Even when last summer he had seen her break down disconsolate, he had been less shocked by her grief than by its incongruity in her. This blush gave to him his only sister as a woman.
“The trouble with Alan is that he thinks he can’t marry me because I have money, whereas he will be dependent on what he earns. That’s rubbish, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” he agreed warmly. “I’ll tell him so, if you like.”
“I don’t think he’d pay much attention,” she said. “But you know, poor old Prescott left me a lot of land.”
Michael nodded.
“Well, it’s got to be managed, hasn’t it?”