When Keith was gone the girl made no outcry, asked no questions, managed
that Larry should not suspect her intuition; all that evening she acted
as if she knew of nothing preparing within him, and through him, within
herself.
His words, caresses, the very zest with which he helped her to prepare
the feast, the flowers he had brought, the wine he made her drink, the
avoidance of any word which could spoil their happiness, all--all told
her. He was too inexorably gay and loving. Not for her--to whom every
word and every kiss had uncannily the desperate value of a last word
and kiss--not for her to deprive herself of these by any sign or gesture
which might betray her prescience. Poor soul--she took all, and would
have taken more, a hundredfold. She did not want to drink the wine he
kept tilting into her glass, but, with the acceptance learned by women
who have lived her life, she did not refuse. She had never refused
him anything. So much had been required of her by the detestable, that
anything required by a loved one was but an honour.
Laurence drank deeply; but he had never felt clearer, never seen things
more clearly. The wine gave him what he wanted, an edge to these few
hours of pleasure, an exaltation of energy.
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