Save for all this rapture of meeting, they took up the thread of their lives where it had been broken, as though no parting had taken place, and their idyll continued to run its magic course. Triona began to write again: some articles, a short story. The shadow shape of a new novel arose in his mind, and, in his long talks with Olivia, gradually attained coherence. This process of creation seemed to her uncanny. Where did the people come from who at first existed as formless spirits and then, in some strange way, developed into living things of flesh and blood more real than the actual folk of her acquaintance? Her intimate association with the novelist’s gift brought her nearer to him intellectually, but at the same time set him spiritually on unattainable heights. Meanwhile he called her his Inspiration, which filled her with pride and content. The lease of “Quien Sabe” all but expired before they had settled on their future house. Medlow was ruled out. So was the immediate question of the Medlow furniture, they having given Blaise Olifant another year’s tenancy. While discussing this step, he had said: “It’s for you and you only to decide. Any spot on earth where you are is good enough for me. By instinct I’m a nomad. If I hadn’t found you, I should have gone away somewhere to the desert and lived in tents.” Olivia, who had seen so little of the great world, felt a thrill of pulses and put her hands on his shoulders—she was standing behind his chair— “Why shouldn’t we?” He shook his head and glanced up at her. The way of the gipsy was too hard for his English flower. She must dwell in her accustomed garden. In practical terms, they must settle down for her sake. She protested. Of herself she had no thought. He and his work were of paramount importance. Had they not planned the ideal study, the central feature of the house? He had laughed and mangled Omar. A pen and a block of paper . . . and Thou beside me, etcetera, etcetera. “I don’t believe you want to settle down a bit,” she cried. He swung his chair and caught her round her slim body. “Do you?” “Eventually, of course——” “But, before ‘eventually,’ don’t you want your wander-year?” “France, Italy——” She became breathless. “Honolulu, the Pacific, the wide world. Why should we tie ourselves to a house until we have seen it all?” “Yes, why? We have all our lives before us.” She sank on his knee. “How beautiful! Let us make plans.” So for the next few days they lived in a world of visions, catching enthusiasm one from the other. Again he saw Salvation Yeo’s pointing finger; and she, in the subconscious relation of her mind with his, saw it too. House and furniture were Olifant’s as long as he wanted them. “We’ll go round the world,” Olivia declared. With a twirl of his finger—“Right round,” said he. “Which way does one go?” He was somewhat vague. An atlas formed no part of their personal equipment or of the hireling penates of “Quien Sabe.” “I’ll write to Cook’s.”