“Quite soon. And meanwhile, mightn’t you—you and Blaise—stay for a bit at the Green Dragon?”
“We might,” replied Nick solemnly, quite omitting to mention that something of the sort had been precisely their intention when leaving England.
Meanwhile Blaise had made his way to the door at the end of the corridor. Outside it he paused, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that beyond that wooden barrier lay holy ground—Paradise! And the Angel with the Flaming Sword stood at the gate no longer....
She was waiting for him over by the window, straight and slim and tall in her moon-grey, her hands hanging in front of her tight-clasped like those of a child. But her eyes were woman’s eyes.
With a little inarticulate cry she ran to him—to the place that was hers, now and for all time, against his heart—and his arms, that had been so long empty, held her as though he would never let her go.
“Beloved of my heart!” he murmured. “Oh, my sweet—my sweet!”
They spoke but little. Only those foolish, tender words that seem so meaningless to those who are not lovers, but which are pearls strung on a thread of gold to those who love—a rosary of memory which will be theirs to keep and tell again when the beloved voice that uttered them shall sound no more.