“Whoa,” was the answer, shaking the trees.
“There, that will do,” Bellair said tensely. He stepped out and passed over the money, forgetting to look at it. He was afraid the man would roar again.
It was nearer than he thought, but a step to the Gate; its latch lifted softly and he crossed the gravel, held by the voice of the rig turning behind. It turned slowly as a ship in a small berth, and the voice carried like the cackle of geese.... There was no light. He was on the step. Something sweet was growing at the door.... Something brushed him at his feet. He leaned down in the darkness, and touched the tabby-puss, knocked softly.
“Yes——” came from within.
“It is I, Bellair——”
The door was opened to absolute blackness. She was not in his arms. Rather he was in her arms. She seemed to tower above him. Around was the softness and fragrance of her arms and her breast.... Not the cottage—her arms made the home of man. She held him from her, left him standing bewildered in the centre of the room. He heard her match, and her voice like a sigh, trailing to him almost like a spirit-thing:
“Oh,—I—am—so—happy!”
The lamp was lit, but she left it in the alcove, came to him again, a shawl about her. Lights were playing upon his shut eye-lids, fulfilment in his arms that a man can only know when he has crossed the world to a woman, not a maiden; a plenitude that a maiden cannot give.
And now she brought the light, and looked into his face—her own gleaming behind it, full of rapture, the face of a love-woman, some inspired training of the centuries upon it, all the mystery and delicacy for a man’s eyes that he can endure and live....
“What is it?”