completely. Stopping in their talk every now and then to smile at each other, to realize that this longed-for thing had come to pass. To savor these moments, these perfect, winged moments, that would never be less than perfect; moments that Time had brought to a fine flowering—"Without the end of fruit"—without the end of disillusion, too, and what scent that flowering had! No, there could be no falling off, no dimming of that brightness. They could trust to Death for that. Their curtain would be rung down on a fine gesture, on a perfect note.
And then back to Robert again, and his qualities that Stephen so much admired. They could even talk of him, frankly and simply. Twenty years ago he had been too near, his claim to be regarded as an absent friend, merely, had been too great. But now
"I think he appreciated you, Claire."
"Yes," she said.
"If he had not—but he did. I have always remembered that. And he made you happy."
She lifted her head and looked squarely at him, holding his eyes with hers, steadily.
"I made myself happy," she said.
"What do you mean?"
There was not much time left to them. Let it
