Oliver got to his knees and put her hand to his lips.
“I worship you, Jean,” he said. “I always have. I worship your glorious body and I worship your darling ways. I love your laughter and your precious, blessed voice. I love your footfalls and the breath of your parted lips. But that was always . . . Now I’ve got something more, something to kneel to. . . . You’re made of the stuff that queens are made of, Jean. I let you down—most terribly. I know I never meant to, but that’s no defence. You left the finance to me, and I broke up your life. . . . Well, women don’t like their lives being broken up, even by accident. But never once, by word or deed or look, have you so much as hinted that I might have taken more care. . . . More. You’ve never complained, you’ve never murmured once—and it’s been far harder for you. Instead, you’ve stood beside me, quiet, steadfast. If you’ve wept, I’ve never seen it. If you’d liked to make it your trouble, you’d every right. But you wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t even let it be our trouble. It hasn’t been ‘trouble’ at all. You’ve charmed it into just an incident . . . an incident in our life. . . .”
Jean stood up and took his face in her hands.
“It’s the ale, my darling,” she said. “The ale I spoke of. So long as we drink it together. . . .”
Oliver rose to his feet and took her in his arms.
“ ‘And he was her man,’ ” whispered Jean.
“ ‘And she was his woman.’ ”
They looked up to see the postman ten paces away.
“There now,” he said. “I thought this was ’Allatrow ’All. An’ lo! and be’old, if it ain’t the Garden of Eden.”
“Don’t say you’re the serpent,” said Oliver, laughing.