“Come and see for yourself.” Milly spoke as if it had been Agatha who doubted.
They turned again towards the house. Powell had come out and was in the garden, leaning on the gate. They could see how right he was by the mere fact of his being there, presenting himself like that to the vivid light.
He opened the gate for them, raising his hat and smiling as they came. His face witnessed to the wonder worked on him. The colour showed clean, purged of his taint. His eyes were candid and pure under brows smoothed by sleep.
As they went in he stood for a moment in the open doorway and looked at the view, admiring the river and the green valley and the bare upland fields under the wood. He had always had (it was part of his rare quality) a prodigious capacity for admiration.
“My God,” he said, “how beautiful the world is!”
He looked at Milly. “And all that isn’t a patch on my wife.”
He looked at her with tenderness and admiration, and the look was the flower, the perfection of his sanity.
Milly drew in her breath with a little sound like a sob. Her joy was so great that it was almost unbearable.
Then he looked at Agatha and admired the green gown she wore. “You don’t know,” he said, “how exquisitely right you are.”
She smiled. She knew how exquisitely right he was.