Fear came upon Peter. He stood quite still for some moments, looking at the house and the cedars. He dropped his valise at the front door and mopped his face. Then he walked slowly across the lawn towards the terraces. He wanted to shout, and found himself hoarse. Then on the first terrace he got out: “Jo-un!” in a flat croak. He had to cry again: “Jo-un!” before it sounded at all like the old style.
Joan became visible. She had come out of the arbour at the top of the garden, and she was standing motionless, regarding him down the vista of the central path. She was white and rather dishevelled, and she stood quite still.
Peter walked up the steps towards her.
“I’ve come back, Joan,” he said, as he drew near. “I want to talk to you.... Come into the arbour.”
He took her arm clumsily and led her back into the arbour out of sight of the house. Then he dropped her arm.
“Joan,” he said, “I’ve been the damndest of fools ... as you said.... I don’t know why.”...
He stood before her awkwardly. He was trembling violently. He thought he was going to weep.
He could not touch her again. He did not dare to touch her.
Then Joan spread out her arms straight and stood like a crucifix. Her face, which had been a dark stare, softened swiftly, became radiant, dissolved into a dusky glow of tears and triumph. “Oh! Petah my darling,” she sobbed, and seized him and kissed him with tear-salt lips and hugged him to herself.
The magic barrier was smashed at last. Peter held her close to him and kissed her....