“What’s that?” asked Claude.
“Nothing. Browning. Change, and then come and read to me.”
It was not long before he joined her, and seated himself on the floor by the side of the sofa where she lay, with his back against it. The book he was reading was “Esmond,” and that evening they came to the chapter in which Harry comes home, on December 29th, and goes to the service in Winchester Cathedral. And Claude read:
“‘She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement had passed. They had never been separated.’”
Dora’s hand lay on her husband’s arm, and he felt a soft pressure of her fingers.
“Oh, Claude,” she said, “how nice! He was so faithful and patient, and it all came right.”
He let the book fall to the ground. As soon as she spoke he ceased to think of Esmond, and though Dora’s words referred to him, she was not thinking of him either.
“‘They had never been separated,’” she went on, still quoting, but still not thinking of the book. “They hadn’t really been separated, because their love was present all the time, but she had let it get covered up with irritation and impatience. Was it like that it happened?”
“I can’t remember,” he said, “indeed I cannot. Everything seems unreal that isn’t perfect.”
“And there is something more coming,” she said, “coming soon, perhaps in a few days now. So to-night, dear, let us talk a little instead of reading even that beautiful chapter. I am glad we got to it to-day. I like stopping just at those very words, and I want you to tell me just once, what really I know so well, that you feel as if we had never been separated, that you forgive all my stupidity and shallowness. I want to let it all pass from my mind for ever: to know that I needn’t ever reproach myself any more. I think I have learned my lesson: I do indeed. Just tell me, if you can, that you think I have!”