She thought it was one of the most perfect moments of her life. She could taste to the full, in one mouthful, so to speak, the different yet blending flavors of anticipation and realization. Dawson had never seen her so happily excited, nor so difficult to please in the matter of flowers for her room. Judy had wrought this miracle—had so revived Stephen’s flagging spirits that he felt at last able to make the journey. Had they left him alone there in Cannes, he would have waited dully and hopelessly for another stroke. He would probably have ended his days there, without ever returning to England. And now, anything was possible. She longed to share Noel with him, too, Eric, all of them. He might find something to like in Gordon. He might continue to find Connie and Connie’s vagaries interesting. They could see each other every day—or nearly every day. And when spring came, he could stay with her in Sussex—he would love her little house and her garden—and they could talk. There was so much to talk about!
She hoped he had made an honest effort to picture her as she now was. Men were so apt not to face the facts of change and decay in the women they loved. Was he still picturing her as she looked when he last saw her, nearly twenty years ago? Or—as is so often the way with age—was he seeing her as she was when he first knew her, before she married Robert? But she felt she could trust to his common sense about that. At any rate, he would see her as he had always seen her, with the eyes of the heart. And what would he be like? She believed that his personality—that indefinable emanation that makes each one of us different from any other one—would be unchanged. To her, nothing else mattered.
* * * * * *
To-morrow came. She pictured Stephen looking out of his windows at London, and getting used to the smell of it again. Madame Claire was always dressed by eleven except on her bad days, and to-day, thank Heaven! was not one of them. From eleven till four—five hours, five long hours! Miss McPherson had telephoned that she would have her patient there by four o’clock. She would leave him at the door, the tactful creature had said, and go for a walk in the park. Madame Claire agreed to this, on the condition that when she came for him again at six, she stay for half an hour. Miss McPherson would be very pleased indeed to do so.
At four, Madame Claire was dressed in a wine-colored silk that spread about her stiffly and richly as she sat in her straight-backed chair. Her white hair was dressed high, and secured with a comb of carved shell. She had given much thought to her appearance. She kept beside her an old ebony stick of Robert’s, for her rheumatism made it a little difficult for her to rise. On the other side of the wood fire was another chair, carefully placed so that the light would fall on the face of the occupant, but not too strongly for his comfort. The room was full of flowers; early tulips, richly dyed anemones, and here and there her beloved freesias. On a small table at her right hand lay an inlaid box, and the key to it hung on a bracelet she wore on her wrist.
A bell rang, and she sat motionless, hardly moving her eyelids. Stephen … Stephen was at her door … fate was kind … this was her moment of moments, her day of days.
The door opened, and Dawson said in a strange voice:
“Mr. de Lisle, m’lady,” and vanished.
And Stephen came to her.…
They brushed each other’s cheeks lightly, for the first time in their long lives. They moved the two chairs nearer together and sat with clasped hands. Words for a time were beyond them, but at last Stephen spoke.