Valentine obeyed with the docility of a child.
"It was a seaside picture," she began. "The sun was setting, and there was a path of light across the waters. The path seemed to go right up into the sky, and melt, and end there. And I—I thought of Jacob's ladder, from earth to heaven, and the angels walking up and down. On the shore a man and a girl sat. He had his arm round her waist; and she was filling her hands with the warm soft sand and letting it dribble away through her fingers. She was happy. She felt warm and contented, and protected against the whole world. Although she did not know that she loved it so much, it was the arm that encircled her that gave her that feeling."
Valentine stopped suddenly.
"That was a pretty picture, madam," said Esther. "A pretty picture, and you described it well. I suppose the gentleman was the girl's lover or husband."
"Her lover and husband in one. They were married. They sat like that once during their honeymoon. Presently he, the husband, took up his violin, which he had beside him, and began to play."
"Don't go into the music part, please, Mrs. Wyndham. I want just to keep to the picture alone. I want to guess something. I am good at guessing. You were the happy young girl."
"I was; oh, I was."
"And the gentleman was your husband; yes, your husband, whom you dearly loved."
"Don't talk of him, he is lost, gone. Esther, I'm a miserable, miserable woman."
Her icy quiet was broken up. Long-drawn sobs escaped her; she shivered as she wept.