'I could have saved her,' he thought. 'Once I could have saved her. She has found me lacking now, when she needs me most!'
The whistle sounded nearer.
"Will you do one thing for me, Isabelle?"
"All—but one thing!"
"Let me know first."
"You will know."
Cairy was coming down the terrace, cigarette in hand. His auburn hair shone in the sunlight. After his sleep, his bath, his cup of early coffee, he was bright with physical content, and he felt the beauty of the misty morning in every sense. Seeing the brother and sister coming from the beeches together, he scrutinized them quickly; like the perfect egotist, he was swiftly measuring what this particular conjunction of personalities might mean to him. Then he limped towards them, his face in smiles, and bowing in mock veneration, he lay at Isabelle's feet a rose still dewy with mist.
Vickers turned on his heel, his face twitching. But Isabelle with parted lips and gleaming eyes looked at the man, her whole soul glad, as a woman looks who is blind to all but one thought,—'I love him.'
"The breath of the morn," Cairy said, lifting the rose. "The morn of morns,—this is to be a great day, my lady! I read it in your eyes."