“Ale is bitter sometimes, but it warms the blood. I think I count with you now. Why, I don’t know, but you talked in your sleep once. . . .”
“What did I say?”
“It was the night of my birthday—six weeks ago. You seemed worried to death. ‘I want her to have some flowers,’ you kept on saying. ‘I want her to have some flowers—my . . . darling . . . wife.’ And then you said, ‘It’s too late now’—over and over again. And then you laughed terribly and said, ‘A present from Eden.’ ”
Oliver sat upright and put out his hand.
“That’s why you never had them,” he said. “I was afraid . . . they’d seem a travesty . . . because they were—too late.”
Jean put her hand in his.
“You called me ‘your darling wife.’ You. After what I’d said and done. Remembered my rotten birthday—wanted to give me blossoms when you couldn’t afford to smoke.”
“Do I count with you, Jean—now?”
“You always counted, Oliver; but, because it wasn’t the fashion, I covered it up. I broke out that night to see if I counted with you. And when I found I didn’t, I made up my mind to kill my love for you.”
“You did count, dear,” said Oliver. “Down at the bottom of things. But I think I’d rather have died than let it appear. It seems very silly now, but—I was ashamed. When I was alone in the room, I used to kiss your gloves; but when you came in—well, I didn’t so often kiss you. Even that night at the Rhin, with all the openings you gave me——”