It was not until after six months of sanity that he told her all about the miracle. One evening, after the child had gone to bed, they were sitting on the verandah. Louis had been talking of going home to start afresh in England.
"The voyage would do you good, Marcella. My diagnostic eye has been on you lately," he said as he lighted a cigarette and passed it to her. "You're looking fagged, and it's unnatural to see you looking fagged. You're getting thin. I don't want to see you suddenly evaporate, old girl."
She shook her head and stared unseeingly over the soft green of springing life that, before they came, had been devastating gorse.
"Yes, clearly a trip to England is indicated," he said. "You're alone too much. Marcella, I believe you're thinking every minute about Kraill."
"I—can't help it," she said in a low voice. "They're—good thoughts, now."
He looked at her, and something about the droop of her shoulders contracted his throat, made a pain at his heart.
"It's hard—" he began.
"It's a hunger, Louis. You understand it, don't you? But I can't buy it in a bottle!"
"Marcella!" he cried passionately. "I'll—I'll come into your thoughts in time. Lord knows I'm trying hard enough."
"Oh my dear, don't I know?" she said gently. "And has it occurred to you what a mercy it is for me that you're like this now? If I had to hide everything up, like I used to, I couldn't bear it—never seeing him again—if you didn't help me to."