Even now it seemed dream-like that this marvellous happiness should be his; that this fastidious complex creature of fashionable London whom he had dared to love should be pillowing her perfumed head on the shoulder of the man who in his laborious and wretched youth had wheeled a bird-stuffer’s barrow through Whitechapel. His life lay behind him like a steep, arduous hill rising to this celestial cloudland.
“If I had only known,” he said, brokenly. “Oh, how I loved you that night of the storm!”
“And how I adored you,” she confessed deliciously. “You were so brave, so manly that day. You saved Olive’s life, you saved her for me and for Herbert. Oh, how noble! We none of us thanked you, it was all laughter and badinage, but you were my hero, my true, great, strong, simple man.”
And her lips sought his humbly, her eyes swimming in tears.
“Let me kiss you now for your brave deed. Ah, how I was afraid when Herbert, looking through his glass, cried out that something had happened to Olive, that you had swum back for her. I felt my life growing dark. Suppose I had lost you both.”
And her mobile face grew tragic at the thought. He held her tighter.
“Eleanor! It is so good to be with you!” he articulated in a hoarse whisper that was half a sob.
Her tragic features lightened to a winsome, reproachful smile.
“And when I came to your studio, Matthew, you gave me ... tea!”
“If I had only known, if I had only dared!”