Yet what pain, what agony it would be if by chance I had come across this shoe and held it in my hand as now, and there was no violet night to follow, no white arms going to be stretched out through its deep mauve-tinted shadows!

I was still sitting with the shoe in my hand when Viola reappeared, her arms full of lilac.

“I went down to the garden to get some of this,” she said.  “It looked so lovely.  What are you doing, Trevor, sitting there?  The woman has made the tea, and it will be much too strong if you don’t come down.”

She came up behind me and I saw her flush and smile in the glass as she caught sight of her shoe.  I looked up, and she coloured still more at my glance.

“I am thinking about this and other things,” I said smiling up at her.

She bent over and kissed me and took the shoe out of my hand.

“I am glad you like my little shoe,” she said gently with a tender edge to her tone, replacing the shoe in the drawer.

“Now do come down.”

She put all the lilac in a great mass in the jug and basin, and we went downstairs.

After tea we went out to explore our new and temporarily acquired territory, and found there was another flower garden at the side of the house.  This, like the one in front, was hedged round with lilac laden with glorious blossom of all shades, from deepest purple through all the degrees of mauve to white.  Every here and there the line was broken by a May-tree just bursting into bloom that thrust its pink or white buds through the lilac.  A narrow path paved with large, uneven, moss-covered stone flags led down the centre and on through a little wicket gate into the kitchen garden beyond, so that altogether there was quite an extensive walk through the three gardens, all flower-lined and sweetly fragrant.  We passed slowly along the path down to the extreme end of the kitchen garden where there was a seat under a broad-leaved fig-tree.  By the side of the seat stood an old pump, handle and spout shaded by a vine that half trained and half of its own will trailed and gambolled up the old red brick garden wall.  A flycatcher perched on the pump handle and thrilled out its gay irresponsible song.

“I have just come over the sea and I am so glad to be here, so glad, so glad,” it seemed to be saying, and two swallows skimmed backwards and forwards low down to the earth, gathering mud from a little pool by the pump.

We sat down on the bench and looked out from under the fig-tree at the pure tranquil sky, full of gold light and just tinted with the first rosy flush of evening.

There was complete silence save for the clear, gay, rippling song of the bird, and the deep peace of the scene seemed to fall upon us like an enchanted spell.

Viola dropped her head on my shoulder with a sigh of contentment.

“I am so happy, so content.  I feel as glad as that little flycatcher.  It has escaped from the sea and the storms and winds, and I’ve got away from London, its tiresome dinners and hot rooms and all the stupid men who want to marry one.”