6
They spent the next Sunday in Richmond Park, and
mingled the happy sensation of being together
uninterruptedly through the long sunshine of a summer's
day with the ample discussion of their position. “This
has all the clean freshness of spring and youth,” said
Capes; “it is love with the down on; it is like the glitter
of dew in the sunlight to be lovers such as we are,
with no more than one warm kiss between us. I love
everything to-day, and all of you, but I love this, this —
this innocence upon us most of all.
“You can't imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing
a furtive love affair can be.
“This isn't furtive,” said Ann Veronica.
“Not a bit of it. And we won't make it so. . . . We
mustn't make it so.”
They loitered under trees, they sat on mossy banks
they gossiped on friendly benches, they came back to
lunch at the “Star and Garter,” and talked their afternoon
away in the garden that looks out upon the crescent
of the river. They had a universe to talk about
—two universes.
“What are we going to do?” said Capes, with his eyes
on the broad distances beyond the ribbon of the river.
“I will do whatever you want,” said Ann Veronica.
“My first love was all blundering,” said Capes.
He thought for a moment, and went on: “Love is
something that has to be taken care of. One has to be
so careful. . . . It's a beautiful plant, but a tender one. . . .
I didn't know. I've a dread of love dropping its petals,
becoming mean and ugly. How can I tell you all I feel?
I love you beyond measure. And I'm afraid. . . . I'm
anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found
a treasure.”
“You know,” said Ann Veronica. “I
just came to
you and put myself in your hands.”
“That's why, in a way, I'm prudish. I've —dreads.
I don't want to tear at you with hot, rough hands.”
“As you will, dear lover. But for me it doesn't
matter. Nothing is wrong that you do. Nothing. I
am quite clear about this. I know exactly what I am
doing. I give myself to you.”
“God send you may never repent it!” cried Capes.
She put her hand in his to be squeezed.
“You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever
marry. Very doubtful. I have been thinking — I
will go to my wife again. I will do my utmost. But
for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we
were no more than friends.”
He paused. She answered slowly. “That is as you
will,” she said.
“Why should it matter?” he said.
And then, as she answered nothing, “Seeing that we
are lovers.”
