r babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest
in the deep waters of a kiss their star of all that is to come should
fall and be drowned. To each hour its familiar--and the spirit of that
hour was the spirit of the white flowers in the bowl on the window-sill
above her head.

They spoke of Monk-land, and Miltoun's illness; of his first speech, his
impressions of the House of Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier, the
river. He told her of his health, and described his days down by the
sea. She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not
interest even him; but she described a visit to the opera; and how she
had found a picture in the National Gallery which reminded her of him.
To all these trivial things and countless others, the tone of their
voices--soft, almost murmuring, with a sort of delighted gentleness--gave
a high, sweet importance, a halo that neither for the world would have
dislodged from where it hovered.

It was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment to
break the calm of that sacred feeling in both their hearts. They parted
with another tranquil look, which seemed to say: 'It is well with us--we
have drunk of happiness.'

And in this same amazing calm Miltoun remained after he had gone away,
till about half-past nine in the evening, he started forth, to walk down
to the House. It was now that sort of warm, clear night, which in the
country has firefly magic, and even over the Town spreads a dark glamour.
And for Miltoun, in the delight of his new health and well-being, with
every sense alive and clean, to walk through the warmth and beauty of
this night was sheer pleasure. He passed by way of St. James's Park,
treading down the purple shadows of plane-tree leaves into the pools of
lamplight, almost with remorse--so beautiful, and as if alive, were they.
There were moths abroad, and gnats, born on the water, and scent of
new-mown grass drifted up from the lawns. His heart felt light as a
swallow he had seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather, carrying it
along, letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it again. Such was
his elation, this beautiful night! Nearing the House of Commons, he
thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward to the river:
On that warm evening the water, without movement at turn of tide, was
like the black, snake-smooth hair of Nature streaming out on her couch of
Earth, waiting for the caress