The wonder of the woman rose and rose in his mind.  His joy, apart from her, was to give joy to others, and so he had moved about New York for days and nights, reflecting her in countless ways.  When he thought of his money at all, it was to realize with curious amazement that there was quite enough for anything he wished to do.  Things to do were so many in New York, that numberless times each day he sent a prayer of thankfulness to Captain Carreras, always with a warm delight in the memory.  And he liked to think it was Beth’s hand.  She had told him of her pilgrimages during holiday time to the infinite centres of sorrow—­and it became a kind of dream of his—­the time when they would go together, not holidays alone, but always.  The great fortune slowly became identified in his mind with the work he had to do; but Equatoria, the base, amusingly enough, sank away into vaster remoteness.  There were moments in which Bedient almost believed there was a little garden of his planting in the heart of the lustrous lady; moments, even, when he thought it was extending broader and broader upon an arable surface.  Again, some bitterness from the world seemed to blast the young growths—­and the delicate fragrance was far-blown.  It was these reactions, and his sensitiveness to the beauty of the romance, which put off from day to day the time for words.

Two or three days before, she had returned from a week-end in the country, and more than ever her presence was an inspiration.  She must have been keeping holy vigils.  There was animation in her hands, a note of singing in her laughter—­the dawn of June in her eyes, the fresh loveliness of the country in her whole presence.  She showed him that Monday morning, how good it was to see him again—­after forty-eight hours.  And he had gone about his work with renewed spirit—­the silent siege.  The strength of youth was in his attentions, but the fineness of maturity, as well.  He cultured her heart as only a great lover could; but being the lover, he was slow to see the blooms that answered.

Only of words, he would have none of them yet.  Deeply he understood that she had been terribly hurt—­long ago or recently, he could not tell.  Could the story she had suggested of the Grey One’s lover be anything like her own?...  Words—­he was afraid.  Words often break the sensitive new-forming tissues over old wounds of the heart.  His was a life-work, to heal and expand her heart to hold the great happiness....

Beth felt herself giving away secrets, when Bedient looked at her early this afternoon.  He glanced as usual into her face—­but then, a second time.  She followed his eyes an instant later to the place on the mantel, where the small picture of the Other had rested for just one day.  He started to ask a question, but she took the little book, and thanking him, held the talk to it.