. .
But this Rose was his youth again, the best part of his life, the
part of it that had had all the visions in it and all the hopes. How
they had dreamed together, he and she, before he struck that vein of
memoirs; how they had planned, and laughed and loved. They had lived
for a while in the very heart of poetry. After the happy days came the
happy nights, the happy, happy nights, with her asleep close against
his heart, with her when he woke in the morning still close against his
heart, for they hardly moved in their deep, happy sleep. It was
wonderful to have it all come back to him at the touch of her, at the
feel of her face against his--wonderful that she should be able to give
him back his youth.
"Sweetheart--sweetheart," he murmured, overcome by remembrance,
clinging to her now in his turn.
"Beloved husband," she breathed--the bliss of it--the sheer bliss
. . .
Briggs, coming in a few minutes before the gong went on the
chance that Lady Caroline might be there, was much astonished. He had
supposed Rose Arbuthnot was a widow, and he still supposed it; so that
he was much astonished.
"Well I'm damned," thought Briggs, quite clearly and distinctly,
for the shock of what he saw in the window startled him so much that
for a moment he was shaken free of his own confused absorption.
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