It settled in its
own way one thing in particular, which, though often, between them,
heaven knew, hovered round and hung over, was yet to be established
without the shadow of an attenuating smile. Oh there was no gleam of
levity, as little of humour as of deprecation, in the long time they now
sat together or in the way in which at some unmeasured point of it Mrs.
Wix became distinct enough for her own dignity and yet not loud enough
for the snoozing old women.
"I adore him. I adore him."
Maisie took it well in; so well that in a moment more she would have
answered profoundly: "So do I." But before that moment passed something
took place that brought other words to her lips; nothing more, very
possibly, than the closer consciousness in her hand of the significance
of Mrs. Wix's. Their hands remained linked in unutterable sign of their
union, and what Maisie at last said was simply and serenely: "Oh I
know!"
Their hands were so linked and their union was so confirmed that it took
the far deep note of a bell, borne to them on the summer air, to call
them back to a sense of hours and proprieties. They had touched bottom
and melted together, but they gave a start at last: the bell was the
voice of the inn and the inn was the image of luncheon. They should be
late for it; they got up, and their quickened step on the return had
something of the swing of confidence. When they reached the hotel the
_table d'hote_ had begun; this was clear from the threshold, clear
from the absence in the hall and on the stairs of the "personnel,"
as Mrs.
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