l smile came round his eyes.

'No,' he said, 'fortunately.'

And he went across to her, and gathered her like a belonging in his
arms. She was so tenderly beautiful, he could not bear to see her, he
could only bear to hide her against himself. Now; washed all clean by
her tears, she was new and frail like a flower just unfolded, a flower
so new, so tender, so made perfect by inner light, that he could not
bear to look at her, he must hide her against himself, cover his eyes
against her. She had the perfect candour of creation, something
translucent and simple, like a radiant, shining flower that moment
unfolded in primal blessedness. She was so new, so wonder-clear, so
undimmed. And he was so old, so steeped in heavy memories. Her soul was
new, undefined and glimmering with the unseen. And his soul was dark
and gloomy, it had only one grain of living hope, like a grain of
mustard seed. But this one living grain in him matched the perfect
youth in her.

'I love you,' he whispered as he kissed her, and trembled with pure
hope, like a man who is born again to a wonderful, lively hope far
exceeding the bounds of death.

She could not know how much it meant to him, how much he meant by the
few words. Almost childish, she wanted proof, and statement, even
over-statement, for everything seemed still uncertain, unfixed to her.

But the passion of gratitude with which he received her into his soul,
the extreme, unthinkable gladness of knowing himself living and fit to
unite with her, he, who was so nearly dead, who was so near to being
gone with the rest of his race down the slope of mechanical death,
could never be understood by her. He worshipped her as age worships
youth, he gloried in her, because, in his one grain of faith, he was
young as she, he was her proper mate. This marriage with her was his
resurrection and his life.

All this she could not know. She wanted to be made much of, to be
adored. There were infinite distances of silence between them. How
could he tell her of the immanence of her beauty, that was not form, or
weight, or colour, but something like a strange, golden light! How
could he know himself what her beauty lay in, for him. He said 'Your
nose is beautiful, your chin is adorable.' But it sounded like lies,
and she was disappointed, hurt. Even when he said, whispering with
truth, 'I love you, I love you,' it was not the real truth. It was
something beyond love, such a gladness of having surpassed