“You are Fallaray. Who else?”
And he laughed at that and held up her face and kissed her lips and said, “No. I’m no longer Fallaray, that husk of a man, emptying his energy on the ribs of chaos. I’m Edmund the boy, transformed to adolescence. I’m Any Man in love.”
And again she went closer, feeling the far-off shudder of thunder, with a new-born fear of opening the gate in the wall. “Who was that man who came to see you?”
“Young Lochinvar,—Lytham. He’s interested in politics.”
“What did he want to see you about?”
“Nothing.” And he brushed away the lingering recollection with his hand.
“No. Tell me. I want to know.”
“I forget.” And he laughed and kissed her once again.
“But in any case you have to go back to-morrow?”
He shook his head and ran his fingers over her hair.