“Heart’s beloved... little dearest Jean...” She heard the wrung murmur of his voice above her head. Then suddenly, his arms tightening round her: “My soul!”
The sunlight still slanted in through the windows, mellow and golden. A gay shout of laughter came up from the boat on the lake. The clock on the chimney-piece struck the hour—twelve slow, maddening strokes.
Jean stared at its blank, foolish face. The hands had pointed to half-past eleven when the door of the room had closed behind Blaise and Madame de Varigny. It had taken just a brief half-hour to smash up her whole world—to rob her of everything that mattered.
“I must think—I must think,” she muttered.
“Belovedest”—Blaise’s voice was wonderfully tender—not with the passionate tenderness of a lover but with a solicitude that was almost maternal. “Belovedest, don’t try to think now. Try to rest a little, won’t you?”
And at that Jean came right back to an understanding of all that had happened, as the needle of a compass swings back to the frozen north.
“Rest?” she said. “Rest? Do you realise that I shall have all the remainder of life to—rest in? There’ll he nothing else to do.”
She released herself very gently from Tormarin’s arms and, crossing the room to the window, stood looking out.
“How funny!” she said in a rather high-pitched, uncertain voice. “It all looks just the same—although everything in the world is changed.”
He came and stood beside her.