This time she opened her eyes wide and let him see that what she said was true. She had outgrown her adolescence—her madness, unless it could be called madness to love as she did. Her eyes were deep wells of mystery, in which he saw, as from the distant brink above, his own image, clear amid the shadows. There were signs of trouble in them, too, as though she had thought long and distressfully, but greater than the marks of pain were the sweeter tokens of a love and trust unalterable.
She sank upon a rock, he beside her, her head on his breast. The dusk fell swiftly, its shadows enfolding them. He kissed her again and again, her lips trembled upon his as she murmured the words so long unspoken.
"Philidor, I love you—I love you. It was so long—the waiting."
"You needn't have waited, dear," he said gently.
"Oh, don't reproach me! I can't bear it. It had to be. Olga—she smirched us—your love and mine—made—"
He stopped her lips with kisses, smiling inwardly and thinking of the wisdom of Mrs. Hammond.
"There is no Olga—" he murmured, "no gossip but the whisper of the stream which knows the truth."
"Yes—the truth. That is all that matters, isn't it? But that play—shall I ever forget it?"
"Sh—child. You must forget. A lie never lives."
"I will forget. I don't care—now. Let them say what they choose.
But I did suffer, Philidor."