Standing before him, her coat over one arm, the vivid of her hair uncovered, the brown silk of her blouse revealing the full throat, she seemed like a young girl; more an affianced bride than a woman who intended running away from her husband.
He took the coat from her, and their hands met. He raised her fingers to his lips; and again she dimpled to laughter.
"Tell me," said Aliette, "or I sha'n't give you any tea, why I put on this dress. Women, even when they're in love, don't wear their winter tweeds in the middle of the season."
Instead, he kissed her--still tenderly.
"How should I know, Aliette? This afternoon you're all a mystery to me. Tell me, why you are so different."
"Light the kettle; and I'll try to tell you." She balanced herself on the edge of the settee. "You say I'm different this afternoon. I'm only different because I'm happy. And I'm happy because of you, because of us, because of everything. You, too?"
"Yes." Her spirits infected him: he, too, laughed.
"Happiness, you see, is our only justification," said the woman who intended running away from her husband. "I've got to make you happy. Otherwise, from the very outset, I fail. And if"--the tiniest note of seriousness crept into her voice--"if I can't make you happy, not just this afternoon, but always----"
"You will," he interrupted. "And I you."
Tea was rather a silent meal. They were content to sit through it, hand touching hand occasionally, their eyes on each other. To each of them it seemed as though, after long wandering, they had come home. For the moment, passion hardly existed. Almost they might have been boy and girl.