Surely, now, his father could feel it too? Deliberately he set himself to transmit, if might be, the thrill of her nearness—the intimacy, the intensity of it.
Then, craving certainty, he put out a hand and touched his father's knee.
"Dad," the word was a mere breath. "Can you feel...? She is here."
His father's hand closed sharply on his own.
For one measureless moment they sat so. Then the sense of her presence faded as a light dies out. The garden was empty. The restless red planet was moving towards them.
On a mutual impulse they rose. Once again, as in her shrine, they exchanged a steadfast look. And Roy had his answer.
He slipped a possessive hand through his father's arm; and without a word, they walked back into the house....
Parkstone, February 1920.
Parkstone, March 27, 1921.