The next Day, before breakfast, Calatindil went out for a walk, which was the best cure he knew for depression. It was one of those rare times at which his usually stubbornly optimistic spirit had betrayed him. Findis' outburst was not the only cause of this disaster, although it had of course been a blow to his firm, self-protective belief that she would eventually surrender to his advances and fall into his arms.

The light of Telperion was just dying when he made his way into the Square of the Folkwell, that little patch of forest in the heart of the city, where a dense grove of oaks and poplars hid from view the central well. It was more or less extinguished by the time he came into sight of the seat there, finding it occupied by Ilmarien. He would have retraced his steps, but she had already seen him and was waving.

Now Ilmarien had her own part in Calatindil's dejection. It was not that he did not like her; on the contrary, he liked her too much. There was something dangerous and frightening about her uniform agreeableness and charm. Although the thought of her return to Taniquetil was more painful than it should have been, he was beginning to hope that it would come soon.

Nonetheless, it was undeniably pleasurable to see her, as well as embarrassing, after their last encounter. For this Calatindil immediately apologised in flowery language, asking if he might beg leave to express his heartfelt regret for any disturbance that might have been caused her by 'yesterday's unfortunate occurrences'.

"No, no," Ilmarien gushed, "there's no need for all that. The incident was nothing. I've already forgotten about it. It really must have caused you far more suffering than me, loving Cousin Findis as you do!"

Calatindil sat down on the other side of the well.

Ilmarien turned to look at him.

"I don't mean to speak of things that are none of my business," she said softly, "and I hope you aren't offended, but I can't help seeing your love for her."

"I've never tried to keep it a secret."

"No, of course not. Love is nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to shout from the rooftops, I think. I can't imagine any circumstances under which it could be wrong to love."

"Even when the love is not returned?"

"Even if the object were married to somebody else! Pure love could never be ignoble."

"It would not be very fruitful, perhaps."

"It might find fruit in honourable actions. - But you distract me; my point was this: we should be proud even to be creatures with the ability to love."

"I agree with you. I've always shouted my love for Findis from the rooftops, even at the very beginning, when we were both no more than children."

Ilmarien, who had bent her head to gaze meditatively into the depths of the well, looked up at him. She was as lovely as ever before, clad in a very pale yellow dress that made him think of wild primroses. Apart from two locks that were braided and pinned up to make a perfect crown, her silver-blonde hair fell free down her back, disturbed by not even the slightest breath of wind. Her skin glowed in the light of Laurelin.

Perhaps it was only her beauty, or perhaps there was some magic in the air, but Calatindil felt strangely and powerfully inclined to enlarge on what he had said. It seemed like a good Day for bearing souls.

So he told her the whole story of his love for Findis. He told her how, wanting only to be near her, he had become her father's secretary. He confessed that she had never given him even the slightest encouragement. On the contrary, she had shrugged off every one of the attentions with which he had showered her over the decades. Nonetheless, he retained the intangible, unprovable conviction, founded only on intuition, that Findis at least occasionally found pleasure in his company. On this basis was built the great hope of his life.

Conversation between them now tended to fall into an easy rhythm between his gallantry and her more or less scornful rejection of it. Time had smoothed the edges of this repeated exchange: the flowers and compliments were a game of exaggeration, the quixotic chivalry largely put on, the love still real and strong.

"But you don't want to hear all this," he said to Ilmarien when he had finished.

"I certainly do," she returned, "and I thank you for your confidence. I shall honour it most solemnly. Whatever Cousin Lalwen may tell you, I really do know how to shut up!"

Calatindil smiled.