I only know that
they loved each other in the old yet ever new way, without any ifs
or ands or buts; that he worshipped, she honoured; he asked humbly,
she gave gladly.
How do I know? Ah! that's a 'Penelope secret,' as Francesca says.
Perhaps you doubt my intuitions altogether. Perhaps you believe in
your heart that it was an ordinary ball, where a lot of stupid
people arrived, danced, supped, and departed. Perhaps you do not
think his name was Terence or hers Patricia, and if you go so far as
that in blindness and incredulity I should not expect you to
translate properly what I saw last night under the oak-tree, the
night of the ball on the opposite side, when Patricia made her
debut.
Chapter XIV. Love and lavender.
How well I remember our last evening in Dovermarle Street!
At one of our open windows behind the potted ferns and blossoming
hydrangeas sat Salemina, Bertie Godolphin, Mrs. Beresford, the
Honourable Arthur, and Francesca; at another, as far off as
possible, sat Willie Beresford and I. Mrs. Beresford had sanctioned
a post-prandial cigar, for we were not going out till ten, to see,
for the second time, an act of John Hare's Pair of Spectacles.
They were talking and laughing at the other end of the room; Mr.
Beresford and I were rather quiet.
