She went into the deserted upper hall with this intention, but
was attracted on her way along it by the firelight shining through the
open door of the drawing-room.
How gay it looked. The fire transformed the room. A dark, ugly
room in the daytime, it was transformed just as she had been
transformed by the warmth of--no, she wouldn't be silly; she would
think of the poor; the thought of them always brought her down to
sobriety at once.
She peeped in. Firelight and flowers; and outside the deep slits
of windows hung the blue curtain of the night. How pretty. What a
sweet place San Salvatore was. And that gorgeous lilac on the table--
she must go and put her face in it . . .
But she never got to the lilac. She went one step towards it,
and then stood still, for she had seen the figure looking out of the
window in the farthest corner, and it was Frederick.
All the blood in Rose's body rushed to her heart and seemed to
stop its beating.
She stood quite still. He had not heard her. He did not turn
round. She stood looking at him. The miracle had happened, and he had
come.
She stood holding her breath. So he needed her, for he had come
instantly. So he too must have been thinking, longing . . .
Her heart, which had seemed to stop beating, was suffocating her
now, the way it raced along.
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