"I don't think there has been one cross word for a fortnight," says Eleanor, laughing. She piles up the silken pillows on the sofa beside her.
"Come and sit here close by me, and we will have a little flirtation, like in the old days. Only you must imagine these brocade flowers are real red field poppies, and this sofa is a haycock, just at the back of Copthorne Farm. I can almost hear the lazy hum of the bees, and smell the fresh mown grass. I am not in a silk tea jacket, but my old blue cotton frock with the tear in the elbow, you remember I caught it on a nail by the gate. Isn't it fun to make believe like children? We don't often play, do we Philip? You must take my hand very gently, under the hay," pulling the cushion over her wrist. "I draw it away, you see, rather shyly, looking deliciously coy, and say: 'Oh! you mustn't, Mr. Roche.'
"Then you are horribly audacious, and kiss me straight off, you know how you used to. We are silent for a few moments, just holding each others' hands in unspeakable content, the sort of ecstacy that comes before marriage.
"We listen to the birds singing—a thrush keeps repeating my name—they generally seem to say something. I remember one at home that used to sit outside my window and chirp: 'Think of it! think of it! think of it!' till I grow quite angry, always recalling an unpleasant incident. 'I don't want to think of it!' I would declare, stamping my foot. Oh! Philip, what a good actor you are! you look frightfully in love."
"I am," he murmurs tenderly, clasping her in his arms. Eleanor laughs incredulously, and lays her head on his shoulder.
"Listen," she says, disengaging herself from his embrace. "We must not shock Sarah!"
The door is flung open.
"Mr. Quinton."
Eleanor rises slowly, her eyes flash with strange brilliancy; she trembles slightly, flushes, pales!
Her husband sees it in a moment—the rush of colour to her cheeks, and the pallor as her hand meets Carol's.