Susan rose. "I think this has been the happiest night of my life!" she
exclaimed. "I do adore music," she said, as she thanked Rachel. "It just
seems to say all the things one can't say oneself." She gave a nervous
little laugh and looked from one to another with great benignity, as
though she would like to say something but could not find the words in
which to express it. "Every one's been so kind--so very kind," she said.
Then she too went to bed.
The party having ended in the very abrupt way in which parties do end,
Helen and Rachel stood by the door with their cloaks on, looking for a
carriage.
"I suppose you realise that there are no carriages left?" said St. John,
who had been out to look. "You must sleep here."
"Oh, no," said Helen; "we shall walk."
"May we come too?" Hewet asked. "We can't go to bed. Imagine lying among
bolsters and looking at one's washstand on a morning like this--Is that
where you live?" They had begun to walk down the avenue, and he turned
and pointed at the white and green villa on the hillside, which seemed
to have its eyes shut.
"That's not a light burning, is it?" Helen asked anxiously.
"It's the sun," said St. John. The upper windows had each a spot of gold
on them.
"I was afraid it was my husband, still reading Greek," she said. "All
this time he's been editing _Pindar_."
They passed through the town and turned up the steep road, which was
perfectly clear, though still unbordered by shadows.
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