"You are foolish," she told him. "You know I love you," and then looking into his eyes—"It is only you."
He hid his mouth against the soft coil of her hair.
"Last night, I was almost jealous of the dead," he whispered, "and then when I passed the heather fields to-day—and the bracken—" his voice broke.
"I know," she said simply. "It is always the bracken and the heather—and Rob—isn't it?"
From the south window the sun poured into the room and lighted up the heavy carvings of black walnut. The bit of heather still lay upon the floor and withered there. A silent linnet perched itself upon the window sill.
Somewhere from beyond the turn in the wooded drive, Maggie was coming home, singing:
"Some talk of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
Of Hector and Lysander,
And such great names as these!"
A man's heavy halting step came from the back terrace. In the stillness they could hear him mount the stairs.
"But of all the world's great heroes—
There's none that—"
Somewhere upstairs a door closed.