“But you are not dignified today. You seem as young and light-hearted as the springtime. I feel as if I must be years older than you.”
She raised her face suddenly, with yearning eyes:
“Oh, let us emulate the spring this once—let us both be young and foolish and real, and pretend there isn’t any one else in the world.”
For one second he looked at her with wondering incredulity, then, with a tender little laugh he suddenly bent down and folded his arms round her till she seemed to vanish altogether into his embrace, and kissed her on the lips.
“The scent of violets has intoxicated us,” he said, and kissed her again.
Then he gently pushed her into her big, deep chair.
“I’m going now. I only ran in to see how you were after that bad headache. You must bring the lilies and malmaisons back tomorrow, or I shall be offending so grievously you will forbid me the flat. Good-bye!” And without another word he went away out of the room.
Lorraine sat quite still, and let the spell wrap her round for the precious moments that she could yet hold it. Of course it could not stay. In an hour at most she would be her old, brain-weary self again, with the best of her youth behind her; while he was still there on the threshold, young and strong and free. But even this one short hour was good. Life had not given her many such. She would fence it round with silence, and solitude, and the scent of violets.
Alymer went out into the streets wondering at himself vaguely, and yet with a pleasant glow of memory. He felt it bewildering that Lorraine Vivian, whose favours were so eagerly sought by men, should have allowed him to kiss her.
It seemed something apart altogether from her generous friendship and helpful influence. It made him pleased with himself, and filled his mind with a yet greater tenderness to her. He knew so much now of her early difficulties and following troubles—of the frivolous, unprincipled mother, and the long, uphill fight. She had honoured him with her confidence in spite of his youth, and now—