“Clumsy ass I was!” he declared, completing his task and setting the result before her. “Now how's that for a first course? Drink a little of your wine.”
He leaned his glass against hers.
“My love,” he whispered, “my love now, dear, and always, and you'll find it quite strong enough,” he went on, “to keep you from all the ugly things. And now away with sentiment. I had a very excellent but solitary breakfast this morning, and it seems a long time ago.”
“It seems amazing to think that you spent last night at The Sanctuary,” she reflected.
“And that you and I were in a punt,” he reminded her, “in the pool of darkness where the trees met, and the lilies leaned over to us.”
“And you nearly upset the punt.”
“Nothing of the sort! As a matter of fact, I was very careful. But,” he proceeded, with a sudden wave of memory, “I don't think my heart will ever beat normally again. It seemed as though it would tear its way out of my side when I leaned towards you, and you knew, and you lay still.”
She laughed.
“You surely didn't expect I was going to get up? It was quite encouragement enough to remain passive. As a matter of fact,” she went on, “I couldn't have moved. I couldn't have uttered a sound. I suppose I must have been like one of those poor birds you read about, when some devouring animal crouches for its last spring.”
“Compliments already!” he remarked. “You won't forget that my name is Francis, will you? Try and practise it while I carve the chicken.”