And one day when the morning sunshine was more radiant than ever, and the whole earth seemed singing the Benedicite, Sara wandered across one of the bridges that span the river and found herself in Battersea Park. And the lilacs were a mass of purple flowers, and the laburnums hanging in showers of golden rain, and the tulips were flaunting their gaudy colours, and the birds singing full-throated songs of joy.
She sat down on a bench near a great bed of golden tulips and looked at them. And the colour took her back to Italy, and the courtyard of Casa di Corleone and the golden oranges, and she knew now the truth of Christopher’s statement that one day she would be ready to forget them. And a little prayer rose up in her heart, a prayer that perhaps hundreds of women were praying at that moment before flower-decked altars, but which Sara addressed to the bed of golden tulips.
“Ah, Madonna Santa,” she prayed, in the language she had learned to love, “let him tell me.”
And then she looked up and saw Paul coming towards her.
“I knew I should find you here,” he said quietly, and he sat down beside her.
And the tulips became a mass of blurred gold, and the Music of the Heart rang so loudly in her ears that for the moment the song of the birds was drowned.
“I have waited a long time,” said Paul, “but I cannot wait any longer. I love you, Sara.”
She turned towards him, and there was an adorable little sob of happiness in her voice.
“But, Paul, dear,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me long ago?”
And Paul put both his arms round her, and knew that his loneliness was ended.