She shook her head doubtfully.
“I’ve a feeling I may come to it before I’m through!” she said whimsically. “I can see myself in the dust and the dark, hugging a dead candle, and begging, begging——”
He stopped her with a gesture.
“Don’t cheapen yourself! Don’t stand at the door like the milk. The golden drink should be kept for the golden chalice.”
“Why, Wiggie, what snobbish butlerage! It is the stone jar that makes the beauty of the miracle. Watters has taught me that.”
He took her hands.
“But for me even Cherith’s brook is dried up,—Dandy dear?”
Her lips quivered.
“Don’t quote Elijah into my mouth, Cyril!”
He let her fingers slip,—not abruptly, but with a lingering touch that left no sense of desolation.