That ought to be enough--that small thing only magical from what you made
it mean against what it really was--that wish that nobody could even
nickname hope--to keep you cool against the waves of firelight that rose
over you like the scent of a harvest meadow. It was, almost.
Rose had been telling him how unhappy she was all evening. Not whiningly--
and not, as he remembered later, with any specific details--but in a way
that made him feel as if he, as part of the world that had hurt her, were
partly responsible. And to want exceedingly to help. And then the only way
he could think of helping was to put himself like kindling into the
firelight, and he mustn't do that. "Elinor" he said under his breath like
an exorcism, but Rose was very breathing and good to look at and in the
next chair.
His fingers took a long time getting his watch.
"I've _got_ to go Rose, really."
"Must you? What's the time--eleven?--why heavens, I've kept you here ages,
haven't I, and done nothing but moan about my troubles all the time."
"You know I liked it." Ted's voice was curiously boyishly honest in a way
he hated but a way that was one of Rose's reasons why he was here with
her.
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