ust
taken hers, stroked a petal of this prized vegetable, with no thought in
his mind stronger than the thoughts that had been indigenous there since
Christmas. As his finger first touched the rim of the town-bred petals,
undersized yet not quite lacking in "rose-quality," he had intended
nothing more than to salute the flower, as Sylvia made her apology for
it. "One has to wash London flowers." But as he touched it he looked
up at her, and the quiet, usual song of his thoughts towards her grew
suddenly loud and stupefyingly sweet. It was as if from the vacant
hive-door the bees swarmed. In her eyes, as they met his, he thought
he saw an expectancy, a welcome, and his hand, instead of stroking the
rose-petals, closed on the rose and on the hand that held it, and kept
them close imprisoned and strongly gripped. He could not remember if he
had spoken any word, but he had seen that in her face which rendered all
speech unnecessary, and, knowing in the bones and the blood of him that
he was right, he kissed her. And then she had said, "Yes, Michael."

His hand still was tight on hers that held the crumpled rose, and when
he opened it, lover-like, to stroke and kiss it, there was a spot of
blood in the palm of it, where a rose-thorn had pricked her, just one
drop of Sylvia's blood. As he kissed it, he had wiped it away with
the tip of his tongue between his lips, and she smiling had said, "Oh,
Michael, how silly!"

They had sat together on the sofa where this afternoon he sat alone
waiting for her. Every moment of that half hour was as distinct as the
outline of trees and hills just before a storm, and yet it was still
entirely dream-like. He knew it had happened, for nothing but the
happening of it would account now for the fact of himself; but, though
there was nothing in the world so true, there was nothing so incredible.
Yet it was all as clean-cut in his mind as etched lines, and round
each line sprang flowers and singing birds. For a long space there was
silence after they had sat down, and then she said, "I think I always
loved you, Michael, only I didn't know it. . . ." Thereafter, foolish
love talk: he had claimed a superiority there, for he had always loved
her and had always known it. Much time had been wasted owing to her
ignorance . . . she ought to have known. But all the time that existed
was theirs now. In all the world there was no more time than what they
had. The crumpled rose had its petals rehabilitated