Bees hummed in and out of the open windows. The scent of freesias filled the room, delicate, piercingly sweet, yet not oppressive. To one man forever afterwards the scent of freesias recalled that afternoon; the exquisite sweetness of that lovely face; the trailing softness of her widow’s gown.
Steps in the hall.
The door opened. Groatley’s voice, pompously sonorous, broke into the waiting silence.
“The Earl of Airth, m’lady”; and Jim Airth walked in.
As the door closed behind him, Myra rose.
They stood, silently confronting one another beneath Lord Ingleby’s picture.
It almost seemed as though the thoughtful scholarly face must turn from its absorbed contemplation of the little dog, to look down for a moment upon them. They presented a psychological problem—these brave hearts in torment—which would surely have proved interesting to the calm student of metaphysics.
Silently they faced one another for the space of a dozen heart-beats.
Then Myra, with a swift movement, went up to Jim Airth, put her arms about his neck, and laid her head upon his breast.
“I know, my belovèd,” she said. “You need not give yourself the pain of trying to tell me.”