In the silence of her own room, in her garden, in the quiet stir of household duties, and again during the long evenings while she sat knitting by the fire and her brothers talked, she had pondered much upon love and puzzled herself with many questions.

She had watched girls and their lovers, wives and their husbands.

Can love (she had asked) draw near and pass and go its way unrecognised?
She had conned the signs.

Now the hour had come, and she had needed none of her learning--eyes, hands, and voice, she had known the authentic god.
And she knew that it was not absurd; she knew herself worthy of love's belated condescension--not Raoul's; for the moment she scarcely thought of Raoul; for the moment Raoul's image grew faint and indefinite in the glory of being loved.

Instinct, too, thrust it into the background; for as Raoul grew definite so must his youth, his circumstances, the world's laughter, the barriers never to be overcome.
But merely to be loved, and to rest in that knowledge awhile--here were no barriers.