They sat there a moment, silent.
“Do you—do you think—?” Rose-Ann began in a troubled voice.
“I think Clive is a little upset,” he said. “Poor devil!”
“You don’t—?” She stopped again.
“What?” he asked dreamily, reaching out and finding her fingers as they drooped over the arm of the chair.
“Nothing,” she said.
Presently he looked up, and met her eyes. A look he had never seen before glowed in them, and it was as if she had shown him some secret part of herself always hidden before. That look seemed to reveal to him, as if for the first time, dazzlingly, by the real truth of their love. It was as if everything they had said to each other had been in some way false and evasive. This was the truth—this ultimate surrender, this faith-beyond-reason, this something deeper than pride and joy in her eyes. He was strangely exalted. He thought: “This—this—is marriage....”
In an instant the revelation had passed. Rose-Ann bent down swiftly to shake out a fold in her skirt—and to hide that revealing look, it seemed. Clive was at the door, coming in with their hot drinks.
“And now,” said Clive, settling down comfortably in the third big chair, “tell me about it.”