She was barefoot, as he was, and bareheaded. In her bosom
was a spray of dog-rose.
"You are blue-gowned, like Despoina," he told her, "and, indeed, that is
your name. I am to have a fairy wife."
"Artemis no more," she laughed.
"You fulfil all the goddesses. Artemis was your childhood. But let's be
practical. What is to be done?" She faltered her answer.
"I have found out by myself what to do," she said. And then she kissed
him. "It's done now."
They picked up their lives where they had dropped them. They were content
to wait for the fulness of their joy. He busied himself with food for her;
he cooked, and she helped him; they talked of his affairs as if they had
always been hers.
Something stirred the practical side of him. She was to see him as near a
man of the world as it was possible for him to be. It might have been a
shock to her, but its simplicity was all his own.
"I must see one person, and you must see one. I'll go to your father, and
you shall tell Ingram what's going to happen. We don't owe him much, but
there's that, I think. I've a great idea of treating the world with
civility. The one thing it has worth having is its sense of manners. Let
us have manners, then.
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