Then, the first sharp instinct to turn aside passed. He accepted the adventure. Stooping down for a stone, he flung it with a noisy splash into the river. The girl opened her eyes, threw her hair back in a cloud, and sat up.
At once a wave of invincible shyness descended upon Paul, rendering words or action impossible; he felt ridiculously embarrassed, and sought hurriedly in his mind for ways of escape. But, before any feasible plan for undoing what was already done suggested itself, he became aware of a very singular thing—the face of the girl was covered! He could not see it clearly. Something, veil-like and misty, hung before it so that his eyes could not focus properly upon the features. The recognition he had half anticipated, therefore, did not come.
And this helped to restore his composure. It was, in any case, futile to pretend he did not see her. For one thing, he realised that she was staring at him just as hard as he was staring at her. The very next instant she rose and came across the hot sand towards him, her hair flying loose, and both hands outstretched by way of greeting. Again, the half-recognition that refused to complete itself swept j confusingly over him.
But this spontaneous and unexpected action had an immediate effect upon him of another kind. His embarrassment vanished. What she did seemed altogether right and natural, and the beauty of the girl drove all minor emotions from his mind. His whole being rose in a wave of unaffected delight, and almost before he was aware of it, he had stepped forward and caught both her hands in his own.
This strange golden happiness at first troubled his speech.
'But surely I know you!' he cried. 'If only I could see your face!'
'You ought to know me,' she replied at once with a laugh as of old acquaintance, 'for you have. called for me often enough, I'm sure!' Her voice was soft; curiously familiar accents rang in it; yet, as with the face, he knew not whose it was.
She looked up at him, and though he could not make out the features, he discerned the expression they wore—an expression of peace and confidence. The girl trusted him delightfully.
'Then what hides you from me?' he insisted.
She answered him so low that he hardly caught the words. Certainly, at the moment he did not understand them, for happiness still confused him. 'The body,' she murmured; 'the veil of the body.'
She returned the firm and equal pressure of his hands, and allowed him to draw her close. Their faces approached, and he looked searchingly down upon her, trying to pierce the veil in vain. The hot sunshine fell in a blaze upon their uncovered heads. The next moment the girl raised her lips to his, and almost before he knew it they had kissed.
Yet that kiss seemed the most natural thing in the world; at a stroke it killed the last vestige of shyness. Youth ran in his veins like fire.
'Now, tell me exactly who you are, please,' he cried, standing back a little for an inspection, but still holding her hands. They swung out at arm's length like children.
'I think first you should tell me who you are,' she laughed. 'I want to be a mystery a little longer. It's so much more interesting!'
Leaning backwards with her hair tumbling down her neck, she looked at him out of eyes that he half imagined, half knew. Laughter and gentleness played over her like sunlight. Standing there, framed against the reeds of the river bank, with the blue waters behind and the wind and sky about her head, Paul thought that never till this moment had he understood the whole magic of a woman's beauty. Yet at the same time he somehow divined that she was as much child as woman, and that something of eternal youthfulness mingled exquisitely with her suggestion of maturity.
'Of course,' he laughed in return, like a boy in mid-mischief, 'that's your privilege, isn't it? My name, then, is '
But there he stuck fast. It seemed so foolish to give the name he owned in that other tinsel world; it was merely a disguise like a frock-coat or evening dress, or the absurd uniform he had once assumed to deceive the children with. He almost felt ashamed of the name he was known by in that world!
'Well?' she asked slyly, 'and have you forgotten it quite? '
'I'm the Man who saw the Wind, for one thing,' he said at length; 'and, after that, well—I suppose I'm the man who's been looking for you without knowing it all his life! Now do you know me?' he concluded triumphantly.
'You foolish creature! Of course I know you!'
She came closer; the sunshine and the odour of the flowers seemed to come with her. 'It's you who couldn't find me! I've been waiting for you to claim me ever since—either of us can remember.'
A queer, faint rush of memory rose upon him from the depths—and was gone. For an instant it seemed that her face half cleared.
'Then, in the name of beauty,' he cried, starting forward, 'why can't I see your face and eyes? Why do I only see you partly?'
She hesitated an instant and drew back; she lowered her eyes—he felt that—and the voice dropped very low again as she answered: 'Because, as yet, you only know me—partly.'
'As through a glass, darkly, you mean?' he said, half grave, half laughing.
The girl took both his hands and pressed them silently for a moment.
'When you know me as I know you,' she whispered softly, 'then—we shall know one another—see one another—face to face. But even now, in these few minutes, you have come to know me better than you ever did before. And that is something, isn't it?'
She moved quite close, passing her hands down his bronzed cheeks and shaking his head playfully as one might do to a loved child.
'You take my breath away!' gasped the delighted man, too bewildered in his new happiness to let the strangeness of her words perplex him long. 'But, tell me again,' he added, slowly releasing himself, 'how it is that you know me so well? Tell me again and again!'
She replied demurely, standing before him like a teacher before a backward pupil. 'Because I have always watched, studied, and loved you—from within yourself. It was not my fault that you failed to know me when I spoke. Perhaps, even now, you would not have found me unless—in certain ways—through the children—you had begun to come into your own '
Paul interrupted her, taking her in his arms, while she made no effort to escape, but only laughed. 'And I'll take good care I never lose you again after this! 'he cried.
'You know, I wasn't really asleep just now on the sand,' she told him a little later. 'I heard you coming all the time; only I wanted to see if you would pass me by as you always did before.'
'It's very odd and very wonderful,' he said, 'but I never noticed you till to-day.'
'And very natural,' she added under her breath, so low that he did not hear.
And Paul, moving beside her, murmured in his beard, 'If she's not my Ideal, set mysteriously somehow into the framework of one I already love—I swear I don't know who she is!'
They made their way along the sandy shores of the river, the waves breaking at their feet, the wind singing among the reeds; never had the sunlight seemed so brilliant, the day so wonderful and kind. All nature helped them; playing their great game as if it was the only game worth playing in the whole world—the game loved from one eternity to another.
'So the children have told you about me, have they?' he whispered into the ear that came just level with his lips.
'And all you love, as well. Your dreams and thoughts more than anything else—especially your thoughts. You must be very careful with those; they mould me; they make me what I am. If you didn't think nicely of me—verynicelyindeed—'
'But I shall always think nicely, beautifully, of you,' he broke in eagerly, not noticing the familiar touch of language.
'You have so far, at any rate,' she replied, 'for the yearning and desire of your imagination have created me afresh.' And he discerned the smile upon her veiled face as one may see the sun only through troubled glass, yet know its