"Well, everyone must go their own ways in sich matters. 'Tain't no use advisin'. Common sense and love never seems to flourish longside o' one another, more's the pity."
"You see, love is not a question of 'reason.' It is just 'unreason.' Surely it is better to grasp that truth at once, and so reconcile one's self to thinking and acting quite unreasonably?"
"Oh, you silly young fool!" snorted Philia as she lit her candle preparatory to retiring to bed.
On the threshold of the door she stopped and looked back; Evarne was gazing across at her with a sweet smile playing around her eyes and lips. The old woman shook her fist in the air.
"You silly young——" She stopped abruptly, sighed, and shook her head portentously. Then in a changed voice: "My gosh, but 'ow I envies yer!"
She banged the door violently, and went slowly upstairs. Evarne remained for a few minutes rapt in deep thought. Then, rousing herself, she pressed each individual page of her letter to her lips, folded it up with scrupulous care and exactness, and went out to the post.
Many a year had passed since she had known such perfect peace and satisfaction as that which now coloured and perfumed the routine of her days. Living in the present only, she held in her clasp practically all that is needed for happiness. Since her first success as a model she had suffered no physical deprivation such as had characterised that hateful year spent at needlework, but only now were her emotional and intellectual requirements equally and at one time satisfied.
This voluminous correspondence with Geoff was in every way delightful. They thought and wrote much upon topics not altogether personal, Evarne bringing her whole intellect as well as her heart to bear upon the composition of her letters, and, for the first time for many years, revelling in communion with a mind at least equally as reflective and well-informed as was her own.
"What should I have done," she wondered, as she dropped her letter into the pillar-box, "supposing that, loving Geoff as I do, he had not cared for me, and had never wanted to write? I should have died! I don't mean really and truly, I suppose, but my heart would have drooped, my hope and energy and happiness would have faded. I can never be too grateful to him—no, never—for saving me from so much suffering." Then she smiled softly. "Sekhet is gracious and good to me again!"
She walked home with that free, light step that betokens unlimited vitality and buoyancy of spirit. First-love may be indeed unique, unapproachable, but that which is born later in life—the emotion springing from the rich, ripe heart and brain, the ardent affection of the human being in the fullest physical and mental perfection—is every whit as dominating, and it is more inspiring, ample and satisfying than that which came when the heart was young and life a fairy-tale. Evarne had blossomed forth afresh beneath this renewal of love, which had led her again from the monotony of shade out into the vivifying heat of the sun and the glory of white light.