"You will find her in the drawing-room."
Peter's heart bounded.
"She is here?" he breathlessly asked.
He looked at the door between them. Mrs. Paragon kissed him good night without a word, and went into her room.
When Peter went in to Miranda he saw himself explaining away the years in a rush of eloquence. He would torrentially claim Miranda. He would persuade and overwhelm her.
Miranda, for her part, waited eagerly upon the event. She had decided to be mistress of herself till for herself she had judged that Peter's mother was right. She pretended she was not yet sure that Peter had never ceased to care. She wanted to play delicately with her glad conviction.
But Peter could not speak, and Miranda could not play. He came towards her and stood a moment. His lips foolishly quivered, and the veil upon Miranda was torn. Her hand went out to him. She saw she had moved only when Peter dropped beside her chair. There was nothing now to explain. He just crept to her heart and rested.
The meeting of their eyes was not yet to be endured. They came together in a darkness of their own.
Gradually the trouble went out of their passion—a stream, no longer broken, but running deep. To Peter it seemed that the tranquil rhythm of the bosom where he lay had never failed.
"Why have we waited till now?" Peter softly wondered. "It cannot be true. I have come to you from yesterday."