Meanwhile the pair had gone to the little toy home whose questioning name pointed to mystery. There were just three rooms in it, all opening on to a veranda full in sight (save for the configuration of the globe) of the African coast. On this veranda, sitting back, they lost sight of the whin-grown slope and the miniature sandy cove beneath; and their world was but a welter of sea, and its inhabitants but a few gulls, sweeping and swirling past them with a shy friendliness in their yellow eyes. In a dip of the sand-hill, just behind this elementary dwelling and communicating with it by a short covered way, stretched an old railway carriage divided into kitchen, pantry, bathroom, and bunks.
“It’s the craziest place I’ve ever seen,” said Myra. “People will be living in old aeroplanes next.”
But the very craziness of the habitation made for their selfish joy. The universe, just for these twain, had gone joyously mad. A cocky little villa made to the model of a million others would have defeated the universe’s benign intention. Nothing could be nearer to Triona’s dream nest in a cliff. Their first half-hour’s exploring, hand in hand, was that of children let loose in a fairy tale castle.
“There’s only one egg-cup,” croaked Myra, surveying an exiguous row of crockery.
“How many more do we want?” cried Olivia. “We can only eat one egg at a time.”
They passed out and stood on the edge of their small domain, surveying the sandy beach and the seaweed and shell-encrusted groin and the limitless sea, and breathed in the soft salt wind of all the heavens sweeping through their hair and garments, and he put his arm around her and kissed her—and he laughed and said, looking into her eyes:
“Sweetheart, Heaven is empty and all the angels are here.”
On sunny days they lived in the sea, drying themselves on their undisturbed half-moon of beach.
“Where did you learn to swim?” she asked.
He hesitated for a second, casting at her one of his swift, half furtive glances. Then he replied: