She handed him the letter quite simply.
Ludovic read the rather set, conventional phrases in which a French nun asked Rosamund’s prayers for the repose of the soul of her old friend.
She had been “ready to go” for a long while.
“Yes,” said Ludovic, “I remember you told me about that.”
“She wondered what the meeting with her husband would be like—after all those years. She talked of dying just as though it was like going on a journey, to some place where people one knew were waiting. She was very matter-of-fact about it. I think Catholics are like that. She said she would take messages from me to Frances—in a sort of way it comforted me very much. It made it seem—not so very far away, after all. I wonder.”
She was silent for a moment, and then said almost timidly:
“Do you think perhaps she’s given the messages now?”
“Who knows, my dear?” said Ludovic Argent gently.
Watching Rosamund, whose gaze was turned to the dim outline of the Welsh hills, he knew that he loved her, and told himself that he had always known it.
Presently he told her.