‘My husband,’ whispered Virginia.
It was their invariable greeting at this blissful Monday morning moment of reunion. No one would have recognised Stephen who saw him alone with Virginia; no one would have recognised Virginia who saw her alone with Stephen. Such are the transformations of love. Catherine kept out of the way; she went tactfully for a walk. They were to themselves till lunch-time, and could pour out everything each had been thinking and feeling and saying and doing since they parted such ages ago, on Saturday.
Unfortunately this time Virginia had something to pour out which wasn’t going to give Stephen pleasure. She put it off as long as she could, but he, made quick by love, soon felt there was something in the background of her talk, and drawing his finger gently over her forehead, which usually was serene with purest joy, said, ‘A little pucker. I see the tiniest pucker. What is it, Virginia love?’
‘Mother,’ said Virginia.
‘Mother? My mother?’
Stephen couldn’t believe it. His mother causing puckers?
‘No. Mine. She’s come.’
‘Come here?’
Stephen was much surprised. And on Saturday night not a word, not an indication of this intention.
‘Had you asked her?’ he inquired.