"Shouldn't have cared a week ago," shouted Tony in return; "you mustn't now."
Billing grunted unintelligibly and gave his undivided attention to the pilotage....
On the dull earth below Beatrice and Lionel were walking silently toward the house. They were still arm in arm, but no word was spoken till they had reached the shelter of the garden. Then Lionel stopped and took her by the hands. "Ah, Beatrice!" he said.
"Not yet! Not yet!" she breathed, holding back and inflaming his passion the more. "Wait a little! You mustn't say anything yet! Let us approach it sensibly and in a rational balanced mood if we can." She broke from him and laughed merrily. "Let us go in and have dinner first. Afterward, we can talk in the garden."
"Tell me one thing," he said impetuously, "and I will be patient. Was there ever a Lukos?"
"I will tell you two things," she said, laughing a little wildly. "You ought to know them before you speak. With them you must be content for an hour. There was no Lukos, and Miss Arkwright and I are the same creature."
He had suspected it a hundred times, and a hundred times he had found fresh evidence to discredit the suspicion. He knew it must be true, though he could not grasp it yet. But he did not care. The fact that he had been hoodwinked and made a plaything did not trouble him in the least. All he was conscious of was that she was free. He laughed quietly, now completely master of himself.
"That will do to go on with," he said; "now let us be sensible, as you suggest, and have dinner."
The meal was a great success, despite the presence of Forbes, who hovered about them like a benignant and sympathetic butterfly. Lionel could hardly help smiling at him, remembering his recent slip and the sudden recovery of speech. Forbes seemed entirely unconscious, handing the plates with an air that was almost fatherly; and Lionel regretted the obvious necessity of his dismissal in the roseate and fast-approaching millennium. He was not impatient now, perfectly disposed to laugh, eat, drink, be merry and take a fair share in the conversation that sparkled between them. It was a talk as of old, when they spoke freely and lightly of surface themes—the play, the latest book, the morning's news—the clash of wit and opinion sounding bravely through the room.
They smoked a cigarette each over their coffee, but still the talk was of mundane matters, though neither was ill at ease. There is a telepathy of souls that can send true messages beneath the cover of human speech.