Thus Virginia happened—she who had been Virginia Tracy, then Mrs. Sardon, now Lady Tarlyon. But the years that had passed sat as lightly on her as pearls about her throat, her years decorated Virginia; and yet where was the young poet among the many young poets she knew, to take folly by the horns and sing of her complexion, crying that white samite was black beside its sheen?
They grinned at each other, she above and he below. Fairly caught they both were.
“I say, Virginia!” he cried with amazed pleasure.
“That’s me!” she laughed at him. The horse doubtfully came to rest, and it breathed contemptuously into Ivor’s face.
“After all these years, these long years!” she exclaimed wonderingly, staring down at him. Her eyes were clear, blue lights in the gloom. “Did I frighten you, Ivor Marlay?”
“You nearly killed me, that’s all. But I would have died happily, Virginia, saluting you with my pleasure at seeing you again....”
“You see,” he explained, “I had no idea you were so lovely. Someone should have told me....”
“Oh, you’ve changed, Ivor Marlay!” Virginia mocked him deftly. “You are being nice to Virginia. You are not despising Virginia....” That slightly hoarse, breathless voice of hers—so pregnant somehow!
His happy gesture answered her. They were very pleased with each other.
“So I please you now, do I?” Lady Tarlyon gravely asked him.