“You madden me. I have loved you so long. I am like a parched soul by a pool of Paradise.”
He took her by the hand, led her to his chair near the stove, and knelt by her side. She looked at him, the edges of her white teeth together, her lips parted. She was living the moment that counts for years in a woman's life. She can only live it once. Great joy or endless shame may come afterwards, but this moment shall ever be to her comfort or her despair.
He asked her how she had known.
“You told me so.”
“When?”
“At Heddon. Do you think I shall ever forget your words?” She laughed divinely at the puzzledom on his face. “No. You were too loyal to tell me—but you told Connie Deering. Hush! Don't start. Connie did not betray you. She is the staunchest soul breathing. You and she were on the slope by the croquet lawn—do you remember? There was a hedge of clipped yew above—”
“And you overheard?”
She laughed again, happily, at his look of distress. “I should be rather pleased—now—if I were you,” she said in the softer and deeper tones of her voice.
A few moments later he said, “You must give me back the portrait. I shall burn it.”
“Why?”