He looked doubtful. “But are you fit to go, darling?”
“Indeed I am. All I need to put me on my feet is a good night’s rest. To-morrow I shall be right as rain.”
“Well, if you aren’t, I’ll come up and nurse you myself. Shall I take my violin back with me, or leave it here as usual?”
“Oh, leave it. You won’t need it to-night. And it’s safer here than at the hotel. Well, good-by. You’re a dear to put up with all my pains and aches.”
“Such dear aches and pains, all caused by my own brutal self!”
She held out her hands. He kissed the palms lingeringly, and then swung down the terrace towards the courtyard, where his car was waiting by the tall iron gates. Slim, flexible as a steel blade, small shapely head, aureoled in the setting sun, he trod the air like a young god.
Anne looked after him wistfully. As he disappeared around the angle of the house, fatigue mounted about her in dizzy waves, sucked her down, engulfed her in a dark, pulsating embrace, like the swirl of black waters.
Brilliant afternoon faded into dark, moonless night. Gun-metal clouds obscured, one by one, the beckoning stars. A breeze, warm and sweet-smelling as the breath of cattle, stirred in the tops of the trees.
From her deck upon the garden terrace, Anne watched the clouds as, with swollen sails, they scurried like miraged galleons upon an inverted sea. Her headache eased, it had left behind a trail of lassitude. She lay back in her chair, too weary for thought, spent to the point of serenity, at truce with an unsubstantial world.