He stayed talking to Mrs. Smith and the maids for a long time. They had grown much older in the years since he had left， but somehow age suited them more than it did Fee. Happy. That's what they were. Genuinely almost perfectly happy. Poor Fee， who wasn't happy. It made him hungry to see Meggie， see if she was happy. But when he left the cookhouse Meggie wasn't back， so to fill in time he strolled through the grounds toward the creek. How peaceful the cemetery was； there were six bronze plaques on the mausoleum wall， just as there had been last time. He must see that he himself was buried here； he must remember to instruct them， when he returned to Rome. Near the mausoleum he noticed two new graves， old Tom， the garden rouseabout， and the wife of one of the stockmen， who had been on the payroll since 1946. Must be some sort of record. Mrs. Smith thought he was still with them because his wife lay here. The Chinese cook's ancestral umbrella was quite faded from all the years of fierce sun， had dwindled from its original imperial red through the various shades he remembered to its present whitish pink， almost ashes of roses. Meggie， Meggie. You went back to him after me， you bore him a son. It was very hot； a little wind came， stirred the weeping willows along the creek， made the bells on the Chinese cook's umbrella chime their mournful tinny tune： Hee Sing， Hee Sing， Hee Sing. TANKSTAND CHARLIE HE WAS A GOOD BLOKE. That had faded， too， was practically indecipherable. Well， it was fitting. Graveyards ought to sink back into the bosom of Mother Earth， lose their human cargo under a wash of time， until it all was gone and only the air remembered， sighing. He didn't want to be buried in a Vatican crypt， among men like himself. Here， among people who had really lived. Turning， his eyes caught the glaucous glance of the marble angel. He raised his hand， saluted it， looked across the grass toward the big house. And she was coming， Meggie. Slim， golden， in a pair of breeches and a white man's shirt exactly like his own， a man's grey felt hat on the back of her head， tan boots on her feet. Like a boy， like her son， who should have been his son.
He was a man， but when he too lay here there would be nothing left living to mark the fact.
She came on， stepped over the white fence， came so close all he could see were her eyes， those grey， light-filled eyes which hadn't lost their beauty or their hold over his heart. Her arms were around his neck， his fate again within his touch， it was as if he had never been away from her， that mouth alive under his， not a dream； so long wanted， so long. A different kind of sacrament， dark like the earth， having nothing to do with the sky. "Meggie， Meggie，" he said， his face in her hair， her hat on the grass， his arms around her.
"It doesn't seem to matter， does it？ Nothing ever changes，" she said， eyes closed..
"No， nothing changes，" he said， believing it. "This is Drogheda， Ralph. I warned you， on Drogheda you're mine， not God's."
"I know. I admit it. But I came." He drew her down onto the grass. "Why， Meggie？"
"Why what？" Her hand was stroking his hair， whiter than Fee's now， still thick， still beautiful.
"Why did you go back to Luke？ Have his son？" he asked jealously. Her soul looked out from behind its lucent grey windows and veiled its thoughts from him. "He forced me to，" she said blandly. "It was only once. But I had Dane， so I'm not sorry. Dane was worth everything I went through to get him."
"I'm sorry， I had no right to ask. I gave you to Luke in the first place， didn't I？"
"That's true， you did."
"He's a wonderful boy. Does he look like Luke？" She smiled secretly， plucked at the grass， laid her hand inside his shirt， against his chest. "Not really. Neither of my children looks very much like Luke， or me."
"I love them because they're yours."
"You're as sentimental as ever. Age suits you， Ralph.
I knew it would， I hoped I'd have the chance to see it. Thirty years I've known you！ It seems like thirty days."
"Thirty years？ As many as that？"
"I'm forty-one， my dear， so it must be." She got to her feet. "I was officially sent to summon you inside. Mrs. Smith is laying on a splendid tea in your honor， and later on when it's a bit cooler there's to be roast leg of pork， with lots of crackling."
He began to walk with her， slowly. "Your son laughs just like you， Meggie. His laugh was the first human noise I heard on Drogheda. I thought he was you； I went to find you and I discovered him instead."
"So he was the first person you saw on Drogheda."
"Why， yes， I suppose he was."
"What did you think of him， Ralph？" she asked eagerly. "I liked him. How could I not， when he's your son？ But I was attracted to him very strongly， far more so than to your daughter. She doesn't like me， either."
"Justine might be my child， but she's a prize bitch. I've learned to swear in my old age， mostly thanks to Justine. And you， a little. And Luke， a little. And the war， a little. Funny how they all mount up."
"You've changed a lot， Meggie."
"Have I？" The soft， full mouth curved into a smile. "I don't think so， really. It's just the Great Northwest， wearing me down， stripping off the layers like Salome's seven veils. Or like an onion， which is how Justine would rather put it. No poetry， that child. I'm the same old Meggie， Ralph， only more naked."
"Perhaps so."
"Ali， but you've changed， Ralph."
"In what way， my Meggie？"
"As if the pedestal rocks with every passing breeze， and as if the view from up there is a disappointment."
"It is." He laughed soundlessly. "And to think I once had the temerity to say you weren't anything out of the ordinary！ I take it back. You're the one woman， Meggie. The one！" "What happened？"
"I don't know. Did I discover even Church idols have feet of clay？ Did I sell myself for a mess of pottage？ Am I grasping at nothing？" His brows drew together， as if in pain. "And that's it， perhaps， in a nutshell. I'm a mass of clichés. It's an old， sour， petrified world， the Vatican world." "I was more real， but you could never see it."