“A month or so, if I can manage it. I want a rest rather badly.”
“Of course you do; but I was hoping,” she faltered, “that you could find rest at Southcliff.”
“It's good of you, dear,” said he, “to think of me. For Heaven knows how many years I've looked upon the Channel House as a second home; you can never realize what it has meant to me. But I need a complete change, a sort of medicine I must take, no matter how nasty it may be. Besides,” he added with a smile, “you will have John now.”
“John is John, and you are you,” said Stella. There was a little pause. Then after a glance at his tired face, she said in a low voice: “You 're right, Walter; you must go away and get strong again. I spoke very selfishly. I 've not been accustomed to think much of other people.”
“Stellamaris dear,” he said, “if I thought I could serve you by staying, I would stay. But there's nothing for me to do, is there? The—the what shall I say—the veil between John and you has been cut in twain, as it were, by a flaming sword. Perhaps Unity did it. But there's no veil now. The only thing that has to be done is to bring back the sunshine into John's life. That's for you to do, not for me.”
She looked at him queerly. Her face was so white, her dress so black. The only gleam about her was in her eyes.
“I know that,” she said. “But who is going to bring back the sunshine into your life?”
He leaned against the wooden gate and gripped the top bar tight. What did she mean? Was she a woman or, after all, only the old fancied child of sea-foam and cloud?
“When I can eat like a pig and sleep like a dog,” he said lightly, “and feel physically fit, I shall be all right.” He smiled, and took her black-gloved hand. “And when I see the roses in your cheeks and hear you laugh as you used to laugh—that fascinating little laugh like a peal of low silver bells—that I 'll be the Princess Stellamaris's court jester again.”
She smiled wanly. “You were never court jester; you were Great High Favourite.” She sighed. “How far off those childish days are!”