"But I must tell you that the thought was not mine first of all, Vina," Cairns was saying an hour afterward. "You used to talk to me a great deal about Nantucket—about the houses in Lily Lane, the little heads about the table, and how you walked by, watching hungrily like a night-bird—peering in at simple happiness. I couldn't forget that, and I told Bedient—how you loved Nantucket. One night at the club, he said: 'Buy one of those houses, David, and let her find out some summer morning slowly—that it is hers—and watch her face.' Then he suggested that we both come over here to see about it. That's what took us away a month ago."
There was a soft light about her face, not of the room. Cairns saw it as she regarded him steadily for a moment. "I love your telling me that, David," she said.
"I could hardly hold the happiness of it so long," he added. "Last night it was hard, too…. So Bedient and I came over and met the maiden-aunts. Such a rare time we had together—and yet, deep within, he was suffering."
"He went away almost immediately afterward, didn't he?"
"Yes…. Vina, do you think he couldn't make Beth forget the Other?"
"No, David."
Her unqualified answer aroused him. "I haven't seen Beth for weeks," he said. "She has been out of town mostly. I must see her now."
"Yes?"
"Vina, what a crude boy, I was—not to have known you—all these years.
It seems as if I had to know Bedient first."
"Perhaps, I did too, David."