seem even richer than it was. Vita sat gracefully, one hand flicking her skirt almost as if she were only half aware of it. The light was warm on her cheek, blending away the lines of tiredness and grief. She looked as if she could have obeyed her own injunction and for a few hours forgotten all memory of tragedy.
He sat down opposite her, relaxing at last. There was no sound in the room but the fire, the ormolu clock on the mantel with its enamel sides painted with cherubs, and the very faint rustle of the wind and tap as a branch bumped against the window. The rest of the household need not have existed for any intrusion of its presence upon the peace in the room.
Vita wriggled a little deeper into her seat, smiling. “Shall we talk of something that doesn’t matter at all?”
“What would you like?” he asked, falling into the mood.
“Well …” She thought for a moment. “I know! If you could go for a holiday anywhere you wished—expense making no difference at all—where would you choose?” She sat still, watching him, her eyes calm and happy, intent upon his face.
He gave himself over to dreaming. “Persia,” he said after a moment. “I would love to see ancient cities like Persepolis or Isfahan. I would love to hear camel bells in the night and smell the desert wind.”
Her smile widened. “Tell me more.”
He elaborated, describing what little he knew and all he imagined. Now and again he quoted verses of Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam. He lost count of time. All their present griefs and suspicions disappeared. When at last they said good-night and parted at quarter to one, he was physically almost asleep where he stood on the landing near her bedroom door, but he felt less weary to the core than he had since Unity’s death—in fact, since long before that, perhaps since her arrival at Brunswick Gardens and the first awful horror of seeing her again.
He slept deeply and without stirring until morning, and woke with the room full of sunlight. It was late, after eight o’clock, and it took him a moment or two to remember why he had slept in. Of course! He had sat up for hours talking to Vita. It had been most pleasant. She was excellent company. She gave her attention completely, as few people did. It was as if for that space of time no one else existed for her. It was very flattering.
He rose, washed, shaved and dressed. By the time he got to the dining room Mallory had already been and gone. Tryphena was taking breakfast in her room. Clarice and Vita were at the table.
“Good morning.” Clarice regarded him sadly and with a faintly hostile look.
He replied, then turned to Vita. She was still wearing black, of course, but she looked wonderful in it.
“Good morning, Dominic,” she said gently, smiling at him, her eyes very direct.
Suddenly he felt self-conscious. He mumbled his reply and helped himself to breakfast, unintentionally taking more than he really wanted. He sat down and began to eat.
“You look as if you’ve barely slept,” Clarice said pointedly.
“We were up rather late,” Vita explained, her smile widening slightly. She looked calm, very much in control of herself. Dominic admired her courage. It must be an immeasurable help to her family. How much harder their grief would be to bear were they having to support her also, instead of the other way around.
Clarice had obviously been weeping. Her face was pale and her eyes pink-rimmed.
“ ‘We’?” she asked sharply, looking from Vita to Dominic.
“We were just sitting talking, my dear,” Vita replied, passing her the butter although she had not asked for it. “I am afraid we rather forgot how late it was.”
“What is there left to talk about?” Clarice said miserably, pushing the butter away. “It has all been said, and none of it helped. I would have thought a little silence might have been advisable now. We have said too much as it is.”
“We didn’t talk about the things that have happened here,” Vita tried to explain. “We spoke of hopes and dreams, ideas, beautiful things we could share together.”
Clarice’s eyes were wide and hard. “You what?”
It had sounded too bold, far too insensitive. It was not at all how Dominic had seen it or intended it.
“What your mother means is that we spoke of travel and other countries and cultures,” he amended. “We escaped the present tragedy for an