How thankful I am that I insisted on having those rhododendrons
planted just where they are--fifteen years ago! I never anticipated--"
She stopped. Tears came into her dowager eyes. It was obvious that she
worshipped him. She was so absorbed in his heroism that she had no
thought even for his dampness. As Carl's eyes met hers she seemed to him
to grow younger. And there came into his mind all the rumour that had
vaguely reached him coupling their names together; and also his early
dreams of love and passion and a marriage that would be one long
honeymoon. And he saw how absurd had been those early dreams. He saw
that the best chance of a felicitous marriage lay in a union of mature
and serious persons, animated by grave interests and lofty ideals. Yes,
she was older than he. But not much, not much! Not more than--how many
years? And he remembered surprising her rapt glance that very evening as
she watched him playing the piano. What had romance to do with age?
Romance could occur at any age. It was occurring now. Her soft eyes, her
portly form, exuded romance. And had not the renowned Beaconsfield
espoused a lady appreciably older than himself, and did not those
espousals achieve the ideal of bliss? In the act of saving the cat he
had not been definitely aware that it was so particularly the cat of the
household.
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