nd he had given her this ring of which no one knew
except themselves. It was strange to have been suddenly frightened in
that sunset, for now, as she lay here looking back upon it, this evening
was surely the most wonderful of her life. He had called her his burning
rose. His burning rose ... his burning rose? Why had she not brought
back a few of those ragged-robins to sit like confidantes beside her
bed? Flowers were such companions; the beautiful and silent flowers. How
far away sleep was still standing from her; and Pauline got out of bed
and leaned from the window with a sensation of resting upon the buoyant
darkness. The young May moon had already set, and not a sound could be
heard; so still, indeed, was the night that it seemed as if the stars
ought to be audible upon their twinkling. If now a nightingale would but
sing to say what she was wanting to say to the darkness! Nightingales,
however, were rare in the trees round Wychford, and the garden stayed
silent. Perhaps Guy was leaning from his window like this, and it was a
pity their lights could not shine across, each candle fluttering to the
other. If only Plashers Mead were within view, they would be able to sit
at their windows in the dark hours and sometimes signal to each other.
Or would that be what Margaret called "cheapening" herself? Had she
cheapened herself this evening when she had kissed him for the gift of
this ring? Yet could she cheapen herself to Guy? He loved her as much as
she loved him; and always she and he must be equal in their love. She
could never be very much reserved with Guy; she did not want to be. She
loved him, and this evening for the first time she had kissed him in the
way that often in solitude she had longed to kiss him.

"I only want to live for love," she whispered.

Naturally Margaret did not know what love like hers meant; and perhaps
it was as well, for it was sad enough to be parted from Guy for two
days, when there was always the chance of seeing him in the hours
between; but to be separated from him by oceans for two years, as
Richard and Margaret were separated, that would be unbearable.

"I suppose Margaret would call it 'cheapening' myself to be standing at
my window like this. Good night, dearest Guy, good night. Your Pauline
is thinking of you to the very last moment of being the smallest bit
awake."

Her voice set out to Plashers Mead, no louder than a moth's wing; and,
turning away from the warm May night,