Not as they used to, I mean.
But it's none the worse for that.
Only different. We don't see it that way any more."
There was a knock.
Fraulein Muller came in.
She had in her hand a tiny glass jug in which a drop of fluid was swilling here and there.
"I have brought you the rum."
"Thanks," said I deeply touched and contemplating the glass finger-stall. "It is very kind of you, but we have helped ourselves already."
"Good gracious!" Horrified, she gazed at the four bottles on the table. "Do you drink all that?" "Only as medicine," I replied gently avoiding Pat's eye. "On Doctor's orders. I have a too dry liver, Fraulein Muller.
But won't you give us the honour?"
I opened the port bottle.
"To your very good health!
May the house soon be full of guests."
"Thank you very much." She sighed, made a little bow and sipped like a bird. "A good holiday!" Then she smiled at me knowingly. "But it is strong.
And good."
My glass almost dropped out of my hand at this transformation.
Fraulein Muller's cheeks began to glow, her eyes sparkled and she started telling us all manner of things that did not interest us in the least.
Pat had an angel's patience with her.
Finally Fraulein turned to me.
"Herr Koster is doing well then?"
I nodded.
"He used to be always so quiet," said she. "Sometimes he would not say a word all day.
Does he still do that?"
"Well, he does talk occasionally now."
"He was almost a year here.
Quite alone—"
"Yes," said I. "One is apt to talk less then."
She nodded solemnly and looked across at Pat.
"I'm sure you are tired."
"A little," said Pat.
"Very," I added.
"Then of course I will be going," she replied, startled. "Good night, then.
Sleep well."
Reluctantly she went.
"I believe she would like to have stayed longer," said I. "Funny, all of a sudden, what?"
"The poor thing," replied Pat. "Sits alone in her room every night, I'm sure, worrying."
"Ach, so, yes—" said I. "But I do think, all in all, I behaved quite nicely to her."
"You did so." She stroked my hand. "Open the door a bit, Robby."
I went and opened the door.
Outside it had become clearer and a patch of moonlight fell across the path and into the room.
It was as if the garden had only been waiting for the door to be opened—so strong was the night perfume of the flowers that immediately pressed in, the sweet smell of wallflower, mignonette and roses. It filled the whole room.
"Just look," said I, pointing.
In the increasing moonlight one could see the entire length of the garden path.
The flowers stood with drooping heads along the edge, the leaves were the colour of oxidized silver, and the blossoms that had shone so bravely in the daylight, now shimmered, ghostly and tender, in soft pastel shades.
Night and the moonlight had stolen the strength from their colours—but to compensate their perfume was fuller and sweeter than ever by day.
I looked across at Pat.
Tender and fine and frail her head lay with its dark hair on the white pillow.
She had not much strength—but she too had the mystery of frailness, the mystery of flowers in the twilight and in the hovering light of the moon.
She sat up a little.
"I am really very tired, Robby.