THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"Our dear dove then, as Kate calls her, has folded her wonderful wings."
"Yes—folded them."
It rather racked him, but he tried to receive it as she intended, and she evidently took his formal assent for self-control. "Unless it's more true," she accordingly added, "that she has spread them the wider."
He again but formally assented, though, strangely enough, the words fitted an image deep in his own consciousness. "Rather, yes—spread them the wider."
"For a flight, I trust, to some happiness greater———"
"Exactly. Greater," Densher broke in; but now with a look, he feared, that did, a little, warn her off.
"You were certainly," she went on with more reserve, "entitled to direct news. Ours came, last night, late: I'm not sure, otherwise, I shouldn't have gone to you. But you're coming," she asked, "to me?"
He had had a minute, by this time, to think further; and the window of the brougham was still within range. Her rich "me," reaching him, moreover, through the mild damp, had the effect of a thump on his chest. "Squared," Aunt Maud? She was indeed squared, and the extent of it, just now, perversely enough, took away his breath. His look, from where they stood, embraced the aperture at which the person sitting in the carriage might have
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