He seemed to reach her in a stride, so completely did his approach span distances and wipe out time. She saw herself sitting again in a deep leather armchair, under the photogravure of Salisbury Cathedral, while he paced the worn rug before the hearth, and his preacher’s voice broke on the words: “Sterile pain....”
“Shall we walk a little way? The garden seems very beautiful,” the Bishop suggested.
They stood by a white balustrade under mimosa boughs, and exchanged futilities about the blueness of the sea and the heat of the sun. “A New York February ... brr....” “Yes, don’t you envy us? Day after day of this.... Oh, of course a puff of mistral now and then ... but then that’s healthy ... and the flowers!”
He laid his large hand deliberately on hers. “My dear—when are you coming home to New York?” She felt her face just brushed by the understanding look she had caught twice before in his eyes.
“To New York? Never.”
He waited as if to weigh the answer, and then turned his eyes on the Mediterranean.
“Never is a long word. There is some one there who would be very happy if you did.”
She answered precipitately: “It would never have been what he imagines....”
“Isn’t he the best judge of that? He thinks you ought to have given him the chance.”
She dropped her voice to say: “I wonder he can ask me to think of ever living in New York again.”