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Their eyes met. The song was enwrapped with memories of the first days of their marriage. Heine had been the poet of their love.

They lunched gaily together at a little restaurant on the edge of a bay, a sort of road-house with a stuffy parlour and one slow waiter, like a winter-frozen fly, waiting for warm weather to unlimber. They were alone on the wide verandah overlooking the wet flats from which the tide was still receding; and they clasped hands and even kissed one another across the little table. After lunch they found a warm nook by the side of a rock in an old apple orchard. Before them were only silent fields and woods and the smooth blue Sound. The apple trees were in bloom, a mist of pink spread over the hillside, and white petals drifted down on the grass with every soft breath of wind. Teresa sat on the ground, leaning against the rock. Basil lay with his head in her lap, and his grey hat over his eyes. She hummed dreamily:

"Es war ein König im Thule," and prevented him from going to sleep by teasing him with a feathery grass. She had taken off her hat; the