He laughed at the folly of her question. "Go, when I've got you, the woman whom I wanted!"

"Then you won't go exploring? You won't exchange me for hardships?"

"Di, dearest, I've done with searching."

The door was opening. She pulled herself together. Porter stood before them, neatly laundered, with the old suspicious meekness in her glance.

"Good morning, Porter. We've come to see Miss Beddow. We've been told that she's staying with my sister."

"She is, your Ladyship. But none of them are down. She arrived so late and unexpected."

They followed her across the hall into the sun-filled drawing-room, with its fragrant flowers, tall windows, rockery-garden and little oval pond, with the toy boat floating on its surface. The moment the door had closed, he had her in his arms. Now that he was sure of her possession, he held her desperately as if he feared that he were going to lose her.

"Closer," she whispered. "Closer." It flashed through his memory that the last time he was in that room, he had been the spectator of just such a union and had fled from it because he was excluded.

She stirred against him, lifting up her face.

"This time you're really crying," he whispered. Stooping he pressed her lips. "They always told me you never----"

Freeing her arms, she clasped him tightly about the neck. He could feel the weight of her body, dragging his face lower. She kissed him pa.s.sionately, stopping his breath, as though she would breathe into him her very soul. "Oh, my dearest--my very dear! How cruel you were! You made me ask you. I thought I'd never get you."

The door was opening. Terry was watching them. The first they knew of her presence was when she spoke.

"You came to see me."

They broke apart like shameful children and stood regarding her, their hands just touching. She seemed their elder.

"I suppose you have the right to jeer at me," she continued slowly. "I'm left out. I was too cold. I'm too late. I didn't want what was offered at the time it was offered. What I didn't want once, I can't have now.

And, perhaps, I still don't want it. Tabs used to speak of kingdoms. I never knew what he meant. You've all found yours--Maisie, Braithwaite, both of you and even Ann. Everybody, except me." She laughed to prevent her tears from falling. "I suppose Tabs would tell me that mine's still round the corner. You would, wouldn't you, Tabs?"

Her need, which had been theirs, penetrated their happiness. They felt again the old wild pang of neglected loneliness. Sargent's painting above the mantelpiece, looking down on them, reminded Lady Dawn of her own forgotten tragedy. It was unendurable that their gladness should bring sorrow to Terry. With a common instinct they went towards her.

Lady Dawn placed her arms about her. It was Tabs who spoke.

"Little Terry, you're not left out. You're ours more than ever. We've not robbed you. We couldn't. Of you alone it's true that everything lies before you. All the time you've had your kingdom, though you didn't know it. You still have it--the Kingdom of Youth, for which we older people were all searching."

In the silence that followed there stole to them through the summer sunshine, above the mutter of London, the music of a distant barrel-organ. In the mind of Tabs a picture formed; it was of children dancing along a golden pavement on that first spring morning of his disillusion. The tune which the barrel-organ played was the same. His brain sang words to the music:

"Apres la guerre There'll be a good time everywhere."

And it was no longer an optimism--it was fulfilled promise.

Surely, beyond the bounds of s.p.a.ce, Lord Dawn also listened and was happy. For Tabs, as long as life lasted, it would be the marching-song of the kingdom round the corner.