“Nothing is perfect,” she answered. “You will be back—when?”
“After dinner. How I wish I could stay here now, but my uncle is so lonely. Good-bye.”
He put his arms round her gently and she let him—he stifled her, while he protected her. To suffer any embrace was unusual for her. He was still, glad to hold her. She was sorry he was leaving her; with him near, certain things were impossible—he was an anchor. But there was the rest of the afternoon and Paul.
“Institutions are good sometimes,” she said.
“That is obscure to me. Good-bye.”
And Launa sang a little song to herself:
“Love light come, light go,
Love light come, light go.”
As it was the fashion to observe love critically, with unbelief, she would do it too.
Paul came in at the window. He had a book in his hand.