sent her, English and German. The daffodils in the white window-bottoms shone across the room, he could almost feel their rays. The old glamour caught him again. His youthful water-colours on the wall no longer made him grin; he remembered how fervently he had tried to paint for her, twelve years before.
She entered, wiping a dish, and he saw again the bright, kernel-white beauty of her arms.
“You are quite splendid here,” he said, and their eyes met.
“Do you like it?” she asked. It was the old, low, husky tone of intimacy. He felt a quick change beginning in his blood. It was the old, delicious sublimation, the thinning, almost the vaporizing of himself, as if his spirit were to be liberated.
“Aye,” he nodded, smiling at her like a boy again. She bowed her head.
“This was the countess’s chair,” she said in low tones. “I found her scissors down here between the padding.”
“Did you? Where are they?”
Quickly, with a lilt in her movement, she fetched her work-basket, and together they examined the long-shanked old scissors.
“What a ballad of dead ladies!” he said, laughing, as he fitted his fingers into the round loops of the countess’s scissors
“I knew you could use them,” she said, with certainty. He looked at his fingers, and at the scissors. She meant his fingers were fine enough for the small-looped scissors.
“That is something to be said for me,” he laughed,
