At length came that morning when the nurse told me Clarissa was up in her room, sitting before the fire, and that I might take my tea with her in the afternoon.
Before breakfast then Moxon and I went to Covent Garden.
"I just want to get a few flowers," said I.
We staggered back under the weight of those flowers. Freezias, tulips—even lilac there was. Moxon's face grew scarlet among the yellow tulips as he bore them bravely homeward. I sent them up to Clarissa's room before me. When at last I knocked at the door and was admitted, I found her with her face buried in a great bowl of flowers, and her eyes were closed. If you would see into the very heart of the spring, your eyes must be closed. Nurse Barham was not in the room, so I just stood by waiting till she should open them.
Presently she raised her head. The look in her eyes was as though the spring still filled them, and out went my heart quickly beating to it. I would have given much had that glance been meant for me. That in some measure I had been the cause of it was good enough to know.
"When you're able to get out again," said I, "you'll find everything like that in the country."
"Ah, yes," she replied, "in the country. I suppose all the banks in Ballysheen now are filled with primroses."
"No doubt they've opened their current account," said I. Then I sat down and looked closely at her face. "Do you mean to tell me," I went on, "that you're regretting Ballysheen now?"
"Seeing a little of Ballysheen was better than seeing a lot of London," she admitted. "You don't know how often I've tossed and turned, lying awake in that bed, thinking how right you were. Oh—you were right!"
"When?"