"You won't ruffle it?" I said.
"No," he replied, "I'll be awfully careful."
Then he stroked the back of my head the wrong way, the dear old way he has always stroked it.
"I do love you, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing the nape of my neck. "There never was a Marguerite like mine."
It is at such moments that the tears come unbidden, tears of intense happiness.
Will Dimbie ever realise how much I love him? My words are few. I remember what Nanty said, although she has now recalled her advice. I don't seem to be able to let Dimbie know what he is to me. Human language is not sufficient, speech is so bald. Sometimes in the night, when he is asleep, I press my lips to his kinky hair, but I'm always afraid he will awake and find me out, and I whisper, "God, I thank Thee for Dimbie."
A lark was singing rapturously above us far away out of sight, a thrush was breathing forth liquid notes of silver, and a little golden gorse bush was giving of its best and sweetest to the inmates of the grassy lane.
What a beautiful thing is a lane in which the grass runs softly riotous. A street of pure gold, as it were transparent glass, was what St. John saw in his vision. To me such a street, hard and metallic, would be a disappointment. I want in my heaven cool, grassy lanes, soothing and comforting to tired feet.
"What a birthday!" said Dimbie. "I want always to stop at thirty-one, and sit on a bank with you and look at your hair in the sun, sweetheart."
"You'd get tired of it."