And then at the sound of her name she was all woman, all love. She cried out:
"Joe!"
And they flung their arms round each other. She sobbed there, overcome with the yearning, the glory, the beatitude of that moment.
"Oh," he cried, "how I love you!… Myra …"
"Joe, Joe—I couldn't have stood it longer!"
All of life, all of the past, all of the million years of earth melted into that moment, that moment when a man and a woman, mingled into one, stood in the heart of the wonder, the love, the purpose of nature—a mad, wild, incoherent half-hour, a secret ecstasy in the passing of the twilight, in the swing of the wind and the breath of the sea.
"Come home to my mother," cried Joe. "Come home with me!"
They turned … and Myra was a strange new woman, tender, grave, and wrought of all lovely power, her face, in the last of the light, mellow and softly glowing with a heightened woman-power.
"Yes," she said, "I want to see Joe's mother."
It was Joe's last step to success. Now he had all—his work, his love.
He felt powerfully masculine, triumphant, glorious.