She touched his arm with the tips of her fingers.
“Dear, I trust you. I do, utterly. I couldn’t help it, even if you were not to be trusted.”
“Is that Nature?”
“I think it must be!”
“Put all fear out of your heart.”
She rose and drew apart, yet with a suggestion of lingering and of the gliding away of a dear presence that would quickly return. The light of the pocket lamp flashed a yellow circle on the oak door. She pushed it open and entered the cottage, and climbed the stairs with a new and delightful sense of possession. She was conscious no longer of problems, disharmonies, the suppression of all that was vital in her. A spacious life had opened, and she entered it as one enters a June garden.
Canterton had cleared away Lawrence Kentucky’s war material, and Eve found him sitting in the porch when she returned.
“Very tired?”
“No.”
“May I talk a little longer?”