ore sacred, more
personal; a revelation that was in its way unique. He had hidden
nothing, kept back nothing, not one moment of that three-weeks'
passion (for so she dated it). It was all laid before her as it had
been; all its immortal splendour, and all its mortal suffering and its
shame. Not a line (if she could have stayed to think of that), not a
word that could offend her taste or hurt her pride. The thing was
perfect. She understood why it had been shown to her. She understood
that he wanted to tell her that he had loved her. She understood that
he never would have told her if it had not been all over. It was
because it was all over that he had brought her this, to show her how
great a thing she had done for him, she who thought she had done
nothing. As she locked the sonnets away in a safe place for the night,
in her heart there was a great pride and a still greater thankfulness
and joy. Joy because it was all over, pride because it had once been,
and thankfulness because it had been given her to know.

And in his room behind the wall that separated them the poet walked up
and down, tortured by suspense; and said to himself over and over
again, "I wonder how she'll take it."

CHAPTER LX

That was on a Thursday. It had been arranged earlier in the week that
Flossie and he were to dine with Lucia on Friday evening. On Saturday
and Sunday the Beaver would be let loose, and would claim him for her
own. He could not hope to see Lucia alone before Monday evening; his
suspense, then, would have to endure for the better part of four days.
He had nothing to hope for from Friday evening. Lucia's manner was too
perfect to afford any clue as to how she had taken it. If she were
offended she would hardly let him see it before Flossie and Miss
Roots. If she accepted, there again the occasion forbade her to give
any sign to one of her guests that should exclude the other two.
Still, it was just possible that he might gather something from her
silence.

But as it happened, he had not even that to go upon. Never had Lucia
been less silent than on Friday night. Not that she talked more than
usual, but that all her looks, all her gestures spoke. They spoke of
her pleasure in the happiness of her friend; of tenderness to the
little woman whom he loved (so little and he so great); of love that
embraced them both, the great and the little, a large, understanding
love that was light and warmth in one. For Lucia believed f