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 firmly that she understood.  She had always desired him to be happy, to be reconciled to the beautiful and glorious world; she had tried to bring about that reconciliation; and she conceived herself to have failed.  And now because the thing had been done so beautifully, so perfectly (if a little unexpectedly), by somebody else, because she was relieved of all anxiety and responsibility, Lucia was rejoicing with all her heart.

He had not been five minutes in the room before he saw it all.  Lucia believed that it was all over, and was letting herself go, carried away by the spectacle of a supreme and triumphal happiness.  She triumphed too.  Her eyes when they looked at him seemed to be saying, “Didn’t I tell you so?”

He saw why they had been asked to dinner.  The spirit of the bridal hour was upon her, and she had made a little feast to celebrate it.  Like everything she did, it was simple and beautiful and exquisite of its kind.  And yet it was not with that immaculate white linen cloth, spread on Keith’s writing-table, strewn with slender green foliage and set out with delicate food and fruit and wine, nor with those white flowers, nor with those six shaded candles, that she had worked the joyous tender charm.  These things, in her hands and in his eyes, became sacramental, symbolic of Lucia’s soul with its pure thoughts and beautiful beliefs, its inspired and burning charities.