felt living in a masked world. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. They blinded me. They got in my mouth. And now—Dear! Dear! The dayspring from on high hath visited me. I love. I am loved. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you. I thank God for His sunlight on your face. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. Never a newborn dragon-fly that spread its wings in the morning has felt as glad as I!”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
IN PERSPECTIVE
Part 1
About four years and a quarter later—to be exact, it was four years and four months—Mr. and Mrs. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. Capes had altered scarcely at all during the interval, except for a new quality of smartness in the cut of his clothes, but Ann Veronica was nearly half an inch taller; her face was at once stronger and softer, her neck firmer and rounder, and her carriage definitely more womanly than it had been in the days of her rebellion. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. A silver necklace enhanced the dusky beauty of her neck. Both husband and wife affected an unnatural ease of manner for the benefit of the efficient parlormaid, who was putting the finishing touches to the sideboard arrangements.
“It looks all right,” said Capes.
“I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house- mistress.
“I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time.
“There I can’t help,” said Capes.
He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace.
“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning.
“My charm of manner, I suppose. But, indeed, he’s very human.”
“Did you tell him of the registry office?”
“No—o—certainly not so emphatically as I did about the play.”
“It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?”
“I felt impudent. I believe I am getting impudent. I had not been near the Royal Society since—since you disgraced me. What’s that?”
They both stood listening. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall.
“Wonderful man!” said Ann Veronica, reassured, and stroking his cheek with her finger.
Capes made a quick movement as if to bite that aggressive digit, but it withdrew to Ann Veronica’s side.
“I was really interested in his stuff. I WAS talking to him before I saw his name on the card beside the row of microscopes. Then, naturally, I went on talking. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. Of course, he had no idea who I was.”
“But how did you tell him? You’ve never told me. Wasn’t it—a little bit of a scene?”
“Oh! let me see. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. He loves the Mendelians because he hates all the big names of the eighties and nineties. Then I think I remarked that science was disgracefully under-endowed, and confessed I’d had to take to more profitable courses. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had.”
“Fame!”
“Isn’t it? ‘I’ve not seen your play, Mr. More,’ he said, ‘but I’m told it’s the most amusing thing in London at the present time. A friend of mine, Ogilvy’—I suppose that’s Ogilvy & Ogilvy, who do so many divorces, Vee?—‘was speaking very highly of it—very highly!’ ” He smiled into her eyes.
“You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica.
“I’m still new to them. But after that it was easy. I told him instantly and shamelessly that the play was going to be worth ten thousand pounds. He agreed it was disgraceful. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him.”
“How? Show me.”
“I can’t be portentous, dear, when you’re about. It’s my other side of the moon. But I was portentous, I can assure you. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. Stanley,’ I said. ‘That’s my pet name.’ ”
“Yes?”
“I think—yes, I went on in a pleasing blend of the casual and sotto voce, ‘The fact of it is, sir, I happen to be your son-in-law, Capes. I do wish you could come and dine with us some evening. It would make my wife very happy.’ ”
“What did he say?”
“What does any one say to an invitation to dinner point-blank? One tries to collect one’s wits. ‘She is constantly
