Lemaire, and when she returned, the three of them--
herself, her husband, and Cousin Henry--dropped into chairs beside the
window and watched the silvery world in silence for a time. None felt
inclined to speak. There was drama somehow in that interval of
silence--that drama which lurks everywhere and always behind life's
commonest, most ordinary moments. Actions reveal it--sometimes--but it
mostly lies concealed, and especially in deep silences like this, when
the ticking of a cuckoo clock upon the wall may be the sole hint of
its presence.
It was not the good-byes that made all three realise it so near,
though good-byes are always solemn and momentous things; it was
something that stirred and rose upon them from a far deeper strata of
emotion than that caused by apparent separation. For no pain lay in
it, but a power much more difficult to express in the sounds and
syllables of speech--Joy. A great joy, creative and of big
significance, had known accomplishment. Each felt it, knew it,
realised it. The moonlit night was aware of it. The entire universe
knew it, too. The drama lay in that. There had been creation--of more
light.... The world was richer than it had been. Some one had caught
Beauty in a net, and to catch Beauty is to transform and recreate all
common things.
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