He did not move, he did not look
again. He was as if asleep, at peace, slumbering and utterly relaxed.
She came up and stood before him, hanging her head.
'See what a flower I found you,' she said, wistfully holding a piece of
purple-red bell-heather under his face. He saw the clump of coloured
bells, and the tree-like, tiny branch: also her hands, with their
over-fine, over-sensitive skin.
'Pretty!' he said, looking up at her with a smile, taking the flower.
Everything had become simple again, quite simple, the complexity gone
into nowhere. But he badly wanted to cry: except that he was weary and
bored by emotion.
Then a hot passion of tenderness for her filled his heart. He stood up
and looked into her face. It was new and oh, so delicate in its
luminous wonder and fear. He put his arms round her, and she hid her
face on his shoulder.
It was peace, just simple peace, as he stood folding her quietly there
on the open lane. It was peace at last. The old, detestable world of
tension had passed away at last, his soul was strong and at ease.
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