“And you did help him. You made him; say what you will. You would have made any man.”
They talked—how they talked! Never taking their eyes off each other’s faces. Remembering things that they had half forgotten, things that it took the two of them together to remember completely. Stopping in their talk every now and then to smile at each other, to realize that this longed-for thing had come to pass. To savor these moments, these perfect, winged moments, that would never be less than perfect; moments that Time had brought to a fine flowering—“Without the end of fruit”—without the end of disillusion, too, and what scent that flowering had! No, there could be no falling off, no dimming of that brightness. They could trust to Death for that. Their curtain would be rung down on a fine gesture, on a perfect note.
And then back to Robert again, and his qualities that Stephen so much admired. They could even talk of him, frankly and simply. Twenty years ago he had been too near, his claim to be regarded as an absent friend, merely, had been too great. But now——
“I think he appreciated you, Claire.”
“Yes,” she said.
“If he had not—but he did. I have always remembered that. And he made you happy.”
She lifted her head and looked squarely at him, holding his eyes with hers, steadily.
“I made myself happy,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
There was not much time left to them. Let it be a completely happy time, free of all pretense, of all misunderstanding. She wanted no secrets from Stephen now. Even if she did Robert the least injustice, his spirit must have reached heights of magnanimity very far beyond the reach of such truths as were mere earthly truths. She owed something to the living, and to her own spirit. She had kept her secret well. She meant to permit herself the inestimable luxury of sharing it now with Stephen.