She was shaken by a
pure delight, as if she unclosed her hand to show him a strange jewel in
her palm, hers and his for the looking. The intensity of her
consciousness swept round him and enclosed him, she knew this
profoundly, and had no thought of the insulation he had in his robe. The
instant passed; he stood outside it definitely enough, yet some
vibration in it touched him, for there was surprise in his involuntary
backward step.
"You must have thought me curiously rude," he said, as if he felt about
for an explanation, "but your letters were only given to me an hour ago.
We have all been in retreat, you know."
"In _retreat_!" Hilda exclaimed. "Ah, yes. How foolish I have been! In
retreat," she repeated, softly, flicking a trace of dust from his
sleeve. "Of course."
"It was held in St. Paul's College," Stephen went on, "by Father Neede.
Shall we sit down? And of course at such times no communications reach
us, no letters or papers."
"No letters or papers," Hilda said, looking at him softly, as it were,
through the film of the words. They sat down, he on the sofa, she on a
chair very near it. There was another placed at a more usual distance,
but she seemed incapable of taking the step or two toward it, away from
him.
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