“Oh, I cannot tell you,” she exclaimed, “how glad I am to be with you just now! Everything in the outside world seems so terrible. Do you mind—it is so silly, but after all a woman cannot be as strong as a man, can she?—would you mind very much just holding my hand for a moment and staying here quite quietly. I have had a horrible evening, and when I came in, my head felt as though it would burst. You do not mind?”
Julian smiled as he leaned towards her. A kind of resentment of which he had been conscious, even though in some measure ashamed of it, resentment at her unswerving loyalty to the task she had set herself, melted away. He suddenly knew why he had kissed her, on that sunny morning on the marshes, an ecstatic and incomprehensible moment which had seemed sometimes, during these days of excitement, as though it had belonged to another life and another world. He took both her hands in his, and, stooping down, kissed her on the lips.
“Dear Catherine,” he said, “I am so glad that you came to me. I think that during these last few days we have forgotten to be human, and it might help us—for after all, you know, we are engaged!”
“But that,” she whispered, “was only for my sake.”
“At first, perhaps,” he admitted, “but now for mine.”
Her little sigh of content, as she stole nearer to him, was purely feminine. The moments ticked on in restful and wonderful silence. Then, unwillingly, she drew away from his protecting arm.
“My dear,” she said, “you look so nice as you are, and it is such happiness to be here, but there is a great task before us.”
“You are right,” he declared, straightening himself. “Wait for a few minutes, dear. We shall find them all at Westminster—the place will be open all night. Close your eyes and rest while I am away.”
“I am rested,” she answered softly, “but do not be long. The car is outside, and on the way I have more to tell you about Nicholas Fenn.”