“She was. But there is something more.”
“There would be,” said Cathleen. “She couldn’t love you without being moved out of herself and the habits of her class. That is why I am sorry for her. Are you going back to her?”
“Not yet.”
“I think you ought to write to her.”
“I was waiting until I had seen you again, and made quite sure——
“And you are sure now?”
“I feel now that we shall always be together, gazing out on the world.”
“And finding it so wonderful.”
They were silent then, and in each for other was the same song of life and love, a music passing thought and understanding. So they remained for a time that was no time, hardly conscious of their bodies whose slight contact gave them strength for flight. Easily they ranged back in spirit to their youth, and caught up its sweetness and melody.
They were broken in upon by Miss Cleethorpe, a pale, gray-haired lady whose eyes smiled kindly amusement at their helplessness. Bringing help to the helpless and forcing them to help themselves was the whole practice of her life. Lovers, dogs, indigent young women, were the material in which she worked.