It seemed extraordinary now that she should have found content in these futilities. But it was nevertheless true. She came down to Carbies on Wednesday and it was Friday before she even remembered Peter Kennedy’s existence, and that it would be only polite to let him know she was here, greatly improved in health, on the eve of marriage. Friday morning she telephoned for him. When he came she was sitting at her writing-table, with that inner radiance about her of which he spoke so often, her soft lips in smiling curves, her eyes agleam. Peter had known she was there, known it since the hour she came. He had bad news for her and would not hurry to tell her, not now, when she had sent for him. In the presence of that radiance he found it difficult to speak. He could not bear to think it would be blurred or obscured. If the cruellest of necessities had not impelled him he would have kept silence for always. CHAPTER XIV “Are you glad to see me?” “I am not sure,” was an answer she understood. “Surprised?” “I know you have been down here since Wednesday.” “You knew it! Then why didn’t you come and see me? You are very inattentive.” “I knew you would send if you wanted me.” Now he looked at her with surprised, almost grudging admiration. “Your change has agreed with you; you look thundering well.” “Thundering! What an absurdly incongruous word. Never mind, I always knew you were no stylist. Yes, I am quite well, although from morning till night I did almost everything you told me not to do. I was in a whirl of excitement, tiring and overtiring myself all the time.” “I suppose I was wrong then. It seems you need excitement.” He spoke with less interest than he usually gave to her, almost perfunctorily, but she noticed no difference and went on: “The fact is I have found the elixir of life. There _is_ such a thing, the old necromancers knew more than we. The elixir is happiness.” “You have been so happy?” She leaned back in her chair, her eyes sought not him but the horizon. The window was open and the air was scented with the coming summer, with the fecund beauty of growing things. “So happy,” she repeated. “Incredibly happy. And only on the threshold....” Then she looked away from the sky and toward him, smiled. “Peter, Peter Kennedy, you are not to be sour nor gloomy, you are to be happy too, to rejoice with me. You say you love me.” He drew a long breath. “You will never know how much.” “Then be glad with me. My health has revived, my youth has come back, my wasted devastated youth. I am a girl again with this added glory of womanhood. Am I hurting you? I don’t want to hurt you, I only want you to understand, I can speak freely, for you always knew I was not for you. Would you like me to be uncertain, delicate, despondent? Surely not.” “I want you to be happy,” he said unevenly.