Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable
for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not
broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and
gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly
the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of
Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in
bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more
than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;
at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light
with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her
unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things
that really mattered were unshaken.

So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever,
she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but
simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make
him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled
the step; he must write her a long account.

Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come
off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs.
Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any
more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and
pencilled a note on his knee.

Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine
as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy
Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should
have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court
Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of