“Of course you are. The most beautiful in all the world. Claire”--tucking his arm into hers--“tell me, how is the ‘soul-rebuilding’ process getting on? That’s why I came, really, you know, to find out if you had completely finished redecorating your interior?--I can vouch for the outer woman myself”--with an adoring glance at the fluffy ash-blonde hair and pure little Greuze profile. Claire rubbed her cheek against his sleeve. To a woman who has been for four months limited almost exclusively to the society of one other woman--even though that other woman be her chosen friend--the rough ‘feel’ of a man’s coat-sleeve (more particularly if he should happen to be _the_ man) and the faint fragrance of tobacco which pervades it form an almost delirious combination. Claire hauled down her flag precipitately. “I’m ready to go back to England any time now, Nick,” she murmured. “Are you? Darling! How soon can you be ready? In a week? To-morrow? Next day?” “Quite soon. And meanwhile, mightn’t you--you and Blaise--stay for a bit at the Green Dragon?” “We might,” replied Nick solemnly, quite omitting to mention that something of the sort had been precisely their intention when leaving England. Meanwhile Blaise had made his way to the door at the end of the corridor. Outside it he paused, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that beyond that wooden barrier lay holy ground--Paradise! And the Angel with the Flaming Sword stood at the gate no longer.... She was waiting for him over by the window, straight and slim and tall in her moon-grey, her hands hanging in front of her tight-clasped like those of a child. But her eyes were woman’s eyes. With a little inarticulate cry she ran to him--to the place that was hers, now and for all time, against his heart--and his arms, that had been so long empty, held her as though he would never let her go. “Beloved of my heart!” he murmured. “Oh, my sweet--my sweet!” They spoke but little. Only those foolish, tender words that seem so meaningless to those who are not lovers, but which are pearls strung on a thread of gold to those who love--a rosary of memory which will be theirs to keep and tell again when the beloved voice that uttered them shall sound no more. CHAPTER XXXVII--“AN HOUSE NOT MADE WITH HANDS” THE landlord of the inn of the Green Dragon watched his two English visitors ride away up the steep road that led to Beirnfels with unquestionable regret. They had been lodging at the Green Dragon for the past fortnight, and he had discovered that English milords, whatever else they might be, were not niggardly with their money. They required a good deal of attention, it is true, and had a strange, outlandish predilection for innumerable baths, demanding a quite unheard-of quantity of water for the same. And at all unlikely hours of the day, too--when returning from a ride or before going up to the castle to dine, mark you!