Everything he did or thought reminded him of her. The tiniest and most trivial details recalled her—even a thing as insignificant as the crack in the table. He remembered seeing her run her finger along it one day when she had been sitting in the chair opposite to him, which chair was now empty. The tea-cups reminded him. He had bought them specially for her. Before that he had only possessed two cracked ones and a tumbler. Even one of the cracked ones was precious, because from it she had drunk a cup of coffee the day Pippa had lunched with him and he had decided to re-paint her dress.
“My God!” said Paul to himself, “joy was so near me, and now I must pass, at the best, years of my life alone.”
He looked across at the vases on the bookshelf. They had never held flowers since the day thirteen weeks ago when they had been full of crimson roses. They and the blue vase on the mantelpiece, to the colour of which Pippa had likened Sara, were covered with dust. Paul felt suddenly as if, in spite of his efforts, dust were settling on his heart.
And then all at once he heard a slight sound. It was a woman’s step in the courtyard. Paul caught hold of the arm of his chair and gripped it hard. His face had gone quite white.
The door opened.
“Paul,” said a voice.
The next moment she was in his arms and he was sobbing like a child.
“Don’t, dear heart, don’t,” said Sara, her voice shaking.
He put her in a chair and sat down by the table.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said brokenly.