In that instant she knew unerringly that she was in love not with a dream, but with a fact, that she was in love not with Arthur, but with O'Hara.

For days, weeks, months, she had been blindly groping toward the knowledge; and now, in a flash of intuition, it had come to her like one of those discoveries of science, which baffle investigators for years, and then miraculously reveal themselves in a moment of insight.

Her first antagonism, her injustice, her unreasonable resentments and suspicions, she recognized now, in the piercing light of this discovery, as the inexplicable disguises of love.

And she was not old--she was not even middle-aged--she was as young as Fanny, as young as the eternal, ageless spirit of romance, of adventure.

This was life in her pulses, in her brain, in her heart--life, not pale, not bitter sweet, but sparkling, glowing, bubbling like wine.
At the foot of the long hill Arthur turned the car, and they flew back between the dim fields where the croaking of frogs sounded louder in the darkness.