“I have noticed,” she said, “the Scotch have a great sense of the ‘sinfulness of sin.’”
“Yes ... I think that’s true,” he answered.
“St. Paul invented sin, I suppose; Jesus didn’t.”
“St. Paul invent sin! You know that’s not true—it’s as old as apples,” and he smiled down on her with that tender, indulgent smile that made her feel like a little girl.
At tea he told the Doña what the doctor had said:
“And so I’ll not trespass any longer on your hospitality, Mrs. Lane,” he added, with the laborious gentility probably learnt from his aunt in Inverness.
“Oh, well, it has been a great pleasure having you,” said the Doña, with more geniality than she had shown him for weeks, “I’m sure we shall all miss you—shan’t we, Teresa?”
“I’m sure we shall,” she answered, in a calm, cool voice; no tinge of colour touching her pale cheeks, but a sudden spark of hostility and triumph leaping into her eyes as she met those of the Doña.
“I should like to come and see you all again, before I say my first mass,” he said, looking the Doña squarely in the face.
“Oh, yes ... certainly ... but we generally go away in the summer.”
“I was thinking ... the end of September, maybe?”
“Oh, we’ll sure to be back by then,” cut in Dick, always on the alert to take the edge off his wife’s grudging invitations, “Yes, you come to us at the end of September; though, for the sake of the children’s garden, it’s a pity it couldn’t be _after_ your ordination!”
The weather was so warm that after dinner they went and sat out upon the lawn; but about half-past nine the elders found it chilly and went indoors.
“What about a walk?” said Concha, getting up.
“Are you coming, darling?” she asked Teresa, going up to her and laying her soft cheek against hers.
“No, Puncher, I don’t think so,” she said, smiling up at her; and she was touched to see how she flushed with pleasure at the old, childish pet-name, grown, these last years, so unfamiliar.
So Teresa and David sat on together, watching Concha and Rory glimmering down the border till they melted into the invisible view.
It was a glorious night. The lawns of the sky were dusty with the may of stars. The moon, no longer flower-like and idle, shone a cold masterpiece of metallurgy. The air was laden with the perfumes of shrubs and flowers. Teresa noticed that the perfumes did not come simultaneously, but one after another; like notes of a tune picked out with one finger—lilac, may, wallflower....