“You rode away,” she said, “over the hill.”
“Will you come down to me?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, and that moment disappeared.
He stood in the moonlight, his head bared, his straw hat in his hand. He felt as if he was in a dream. His face had lost its gloom and yearning, and his eyes looked like his mother’s.
When he heard a light foot nearing him, he went forward, and they met with strange young smiles and took each other’s hands. Nearer than the balcony, she was even a sweeter thing, and the scent of her white flowers floated about her.
As they stood so, smiling, Tom came and joined them. Sheba had called him as she passed his door.
Rupert turned round and spoke, vaguely conscious, as he did so, that his words sounded somewhat like words uttered in a dream and were not such as he had planned.
“Uncle Tom,” he said, “I—Delia Vanuxem was my mother.”