So there had been a letter.  Soon, no doubt, light would be vouchsafed him, and meanwhile this was so strangely, touchingly sweet, this holding his Rose to his heart again after all the years, that he couldn’t bother to try to guess anything.  Oh, he had been happy during these years, because it was not in him to be unhappy; besides, how many interests life had had to offer him, how many friends, how much success, how many women only too willing to help him to blot out the thought of the altered, petrified, pitiful little wife at home who wouldn’t spend his money, who was appalled by his books, who drifted away and away from him, and always if he tried to have it out with her asked him with patient obstinacy what he thought the things he wrote and lived by looked in the eyes of God.  “No one,” she said once, “should ever write a book God wouldn’t like to read.  That is the test, Frederick.”  And he had laughed hysterically, burst into a great shriek of laughter, and rushed out of the house, away from her solemn little face—­away from her pathetic, solemn little face. . .

But this Rose was his youth again, the best part of his life, the part of it that had had all the visions in it and all the hopes.  How they had dreamed together, he and she, before he struck that vein of memoirs; how they had planned, and laughed and loved.  They had lived for a while in the very heart of poetry.  After the happy days came the happy nights, the happy, happy nights, with her asleep close against his heart, with her when he woke in the morning still close against his heart, for they hardly moved in their deep, happy sleep.  It was wonderful to have it all come back to him at the touch of her, at the feel of her face against his—­wonderful that she should be able to give him back his youth.

“Sweetheart—­sweetheart,” he murmured, overcome by remembrance, clinging to her now in his turn.

“Beloved husband,” she breathed—­the bliss of it—­the sheer bliss . . .

Briggs, coming in a few minutes before the gong went on the chance that Lady Caroline might be there, was much astonished.  He had supposed Rose Arbuthnot was a widow, and he still supposed it; so that he was much astonished.

“Well I’m damned,” thought Briggs, quite clearly and distinctly, for the shock of what he saw in the window startled him so much that for a moment he was shaken free of his own confused absorption.

Aloud he said, very red, “Oh I say—­I beg your pardon”—­and then stood hesitating, and wondering whether he oughtn’t to go back to his bedroom again.

If he had said nothing they would not have noticed he was there, but when he begged their pardon Rose turned and looked at him as one looks who is trying to remember, and Frederick looked at him too without at first quite seeing him.

They didn’t seem, thought Briggs, to mind or to be at all embarrassed.  He couldn’t be her brother; no brother ever brought that look into a woman’s face.  It was very awkward.  If they didn’t mind, he did.  It upset him to come across his Madonna forgetting herself.