“‘Why not?’
“‘Because you’re here alone, even the children are away.’
“‘Does that matter?’ she said.
“A ray from the setting sun slanted in at the window, firing the red geraniums, and the canary incontinently began to sing.
“‘You came here once,’ said Ruth, ‘and you asked me to go away and live with you. Do you remember?’
“‘My dear,’ I said, ‘I have lived on that remembrance for the last ten years.’
“I waited for her to speak again, but she remained silent, yet her meaning was clearer to me than the spoken word. We stood silent in the presence of her invitation and of my acquiescence. We stood in the warm, quiet kitchen, where all things glowed as in the splendour of a mellow sunset: the crimson flowers, the sinking fire, the rounded copper of utensils, the tiled floor rosy as a pippin. In the distance I heard the lowing of cattle, rich and melodious as the tones within the room. I saw and heard these English things, but, as a man who, looking into a mirror, beholds his own expected image in an unexpected setting, I had a sudden vision of ourselves, standing side by side on the deck of a ship that, to the music of many oars, glided majestically towards the land. We were in a broad gulf, fairer and more fruitful than the Gulf of Smyrna. The water lay serenely around us, heaving slightly, but unbroken by the passage of our vessel, and the voices of the rowers on the lower deck rose up in a cadenced volume of song as we came slowly into port.
“Ever yours,
“Christopher Malory.”