That evening Lary came to the summer house. There was a crescent moon
and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers.
“I can’t let you make this sacrifice for me,” he began huskily.
“Sacrifice? Oh, my darling.... I have been so hungry for you. I could
cry for joy that Eileen has opened the way.”
“Dear, my heart went cold when she said what she did about the children
of hate. Are you willing to trust me?”
“You born of hate? Lary, Lary ... such love as your father’s ... the
love that could survive twenty-eight years of starvation!”
The man gripped her hand until it hurt. Then he drew her into his arms
and his cheek rested against hers. The young moon sank to sleep; the
garden throbbed in the velvet darkness; a moon-flower burst its bonds,
just above them, sending forth a shower of perfume.
“You are too wonderful,” he murmured. “Judith, I know the man that is
in me. I have met him face to face. I saw him reflected in your eyes,
there in the library. Now I shall never be alone. I have attained the
unattainable.”