About This Book


The ancient Romans believed that when men heard thunder on the left the gods had something especially
important to impart. This book is the story of a weekend in an old house by the sea, with the heavy
atmosphere of an impending summer storm matched by the human tensions within the house tensions that
were bound to end in tragedy. This is the outside story. The inside box of the Chinese puzzle is a fantasy.
It is an account of a child who spies out the enemy world of adults, to find out if they are happy in that
strange world; and, by some magical shuffling of time or imagination, manages to project himself into the
lives of his playmates, grown middle-aged and bogged down in the terrible trivia of the "real" and
"earnest" life.

Masquerading as a man, he makes a strange impact on that world. Its sophisticated characters take it for
granted that he is an artist and are frightened by what they imagine is the sardonic humor behind his naive
candor.

In this book Morley is reminiscent of Virginia Woolf. He has the same sensitivity to country moods, to
the frail undercurrents in the stream of consciousness, the ethical issues flowing and ebbing beneath a
variety of sensations and impulses. Thunder on the Left has affinities to that great work of poetic
imagination, The Waves, which it preceded by six years.
 Thunder on the Left
By Christopher Morley
       (v. 3.0)
Among the notionable dictes of antique Rome was the fancy that when men heard thunder on the
left the gods had somewhat of speciall advertisement to impart. Then did the prudent pause and
lay down their affaire to studye what omen Jove intended.
? SIR EUSTACE PEACHTREE.
THE DANGERS OF THIS MORTALL LIFE.
PENGUIN BOOKS, INC. - NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
Published by Penguin Books, Inc. and Reprinted by permission of J. B. Lippincott Company
FIRST PENGUIN BOOKS EDITION, MARCH, 1946
Penguin Books, Inc., 245 Fifth Avenue, New York 16, N. Y. Penguin Books Limited, Harmondsworth,
Middlesex, England
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
  TO
S. A. E.
The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was very dangerous.
—Oliver Goldsmith.

On parla des passions. "Ah! qu'elles sont funestes!" disait Zadig."Ce sont les vents qui enflent les voiles
du vaisseau," repartit Termite: "elles le submergent quelquefois; mais sans elles il ne pour-rait voguer. La
bile rend colère et malade; mais sans la bile l'homme ne saurait vivre. Tout est dangereux ici-bas, et tout
est necessaire."
—Voltaire, Zadig

"Your mind had to be tormented and fevered and exalted before you could see a god."
"It was cruel of you to do this," she said.
—James Stephens, In the Land of Youth.
                                                     I

Now that the children were getting big, it wasn't to be called the Nursery any longer. In fact, it was being
re-papered that very day: the old scribbled Mother Goose pattern had already been covered with new
strips, damp and bitter-smelling. But Martin thought he would be able to remember the gay fairy-tale
figures, even under the bright fresh paper. There were three bobtailed mice, dancing. They were repeated
several times in the procession of pictures that ran round the wall. How often he had studied them as he
lay in bed waiting for it to be time to get up. It must be excellent to be Grown Up and able to dress as
early as you please. What a golden light lies across the garden those summer mornings.

At any rate, it would be comforting to know that the bobtailed mice were still there, underneath. Today
the smell of the paste and new paper was all through the house. The men were to have come last week.
Today it was awkward: it was Martin's birthday (he was ten) and he and Bunny had been told to invite
some friends for a small party. It was raining, too: one of those steady drumming rains that make a house
so cosy. The Grown Ups were having tea on the veranda, so the party was in the dining room. When
Mrs. Richmond looked through the glass porch doors to see how they were getting on, she was
surprised to find no one visible.

"Where on earth have those children gone?" she exclaimed. "How delightfully quiet they are."

There was a seven-voiced halloo of triumph, and a great scuffle and movement under the big mahogany
table. Several steamer rugs had been pinned together and draped across the board so that they hung
down forming a kind of pavilion. From this concealment the children came scrambling and surrounded
her in a lively group.

"We had all disappeared!" said Bunny. She was really called Eileen, but she was soft and plump and
brown-eyed and twitch-nosed; three years younger than her brother.

"You came just in time to save us," said Martin gaily.

"Just in time to save my table," amended Mrs. Richmond. "Bunny, you know how you cried when you
scratched your legs going blackberrying. Do you suppose the table likes having its legs scratched any
better than you do? And those grimy old rugs all over my lace cloth. Martin, take them off at once."

"We were playing Stern Parents," explained Alec, a cousin and less awed by reproof than the other
guests, who were merely friends.

Mrs. Richmond was taken aback. "What a queer name for a game."

"It's a lovely game," said Ruth, her face pink with excitement. "You pretend to be Parents and you all get
together and talk about the terrible time you have with your children — "

Martin broke in: "And you tell each other all the things you've had to scold them for — "

"And you have to forbid their doing all kinds of things," said Ben.

"And speak to them Very Seriously," chirped Bunny. Mrs. Richmond felt a twinge of merriment at the
echo of this familiar phrase.

"And every time you've punished them for something that doesn't really matter — " (this was Phyllis)

"You're a Stern Parent, and have to disappear!" cried Martin.
"You get under the table and can't come out until someone says something nice about you."

"It's a very instructing game, 'cause you have to know just how far children can be allowed to go — "

"But we were all Stern Parents, and had all disappeared."

"Yes, and then Mother said we were delightfully quiet, and that saved us."

"What an extraordinary game," said Mrs. Richmond.

"All Martin's games are extraordinary," said Phyllis. He just made up one called Quarrelsome Children."

"Will you play it with us?" asked Bunny.

"I don't believe that's a new game," said her mother. "I'm sure I've seen it played, too often. But it's time
for the cake. Straighten up the chairs and I'll go and get it."

Seated round the table, and left alone with the cake, the lighted candles, and the ice cream, the children
found much to discuss.

"Ten candles," said Alec, counting them carefully.

"I had thirteen on mine, last birthday," said Phyllis, the oldest of the girls.

"That's nothing, so did I," said Ben.

"Your cook's clever," said Ruth. "She's marked the places to cut, with icing, so you can make all the
pieces even."

"I think it was foolish of her," said Martin, "because Bunny is quite a small child still; if she has too much
chocolate she comes out in spots."

Bunny and Joyce, at the other end of the table, looked at each other fleetingly, in a tacit alliance of
juniority. Joyce was also seven, a dark little elf, rather silent.

"Why don't you blow out the candles?" shrilled Bunny.

This effectively altered the topic. After the sudden hurricane had ceased, Martin began to cut, obediently
following the white spokes of sugar.

"I wonder what it feels like to be grown up?" said Alec.

"I guess we'll know if we wait long enough," said Phyllis.

"How old do you have to be, to be grown up?" asked Ruth.

"A man's grown up when he's twenty-one," Ben stated firmly.

"Is Daddy twenty-one?" said Bunny.

Cries of scorn answered this. "Of course he is," said Martin. "Daddy's middle-age, he's over thirty. He's
what they call primeoflife, I heard him say so."

"That's just before your hair begins to come out in the comb," said Alec.

Bunny was undismayed, perhaps encouraged by seeing in front of her more ice cream than she had ever
been left alone with before.

"Daddy isn't grown up," she insisted. "The other day when we played blind man's buff on the beach,
Mother said he was just a big boy."

"Girls grow up quicker," said Phyllis. "My sister's eighteen, she's so grown up she'll hardly speak to me. It
happened all at once. She went for a week-end party, when she came back she was grown up."

"That's not grown up," said Ben. "That's just stuck up. Girls get like that. It's a form of nervousness."

They were not aware that Ben had picked up this phrase by overhearing it applied to some eccentricities
of his own. They were impressed, and for a moment the ice cream and cake engaged all attentions. Then
a round of laughter from the veranda reopened the topic.

"Why do men laugh more than ladies?" asked Bunny.

"It must be wonderful," said Martin.

"You bet!" said Ben. "Think of having long trousers, and smoking a pipe, blowing rings, going to town
every day, going to the bank and getting money — "

"And all the drug stores where you can stop and have sodas," said Ruth.

"Sailing a boat!"

"Going shopping!"

"The circus!" shouted Bunny.

"I don't mean just doing things," said Martin. "I mean thinking things." His eager face, clearly lit by two
candles in tall silver sticks, was suddenly and charmingly grave. "Able to think what you want to; not to
have to — to do things you know are wrong." For an instant the boy seemed to tremble on the edge of
uttering the whole secret infamy of childhood; the most pitiable of earth's slaveries; perhaps the only one
that can never be dissolved. But the others hardly understood; nor did he, himself. He covered his
embarrassment by grabbing at a cracker of gilt paper in which Alec was rummaging for the pull.

Joyce had slipped from her chair and was peeping through one of the windows. Something in the talk had
struck home to her in a queer, troublesome way. Suddenly, she didn't know why, she wanted to look at
the Grown Ups, to see exactly what they were like. The rest of the party followed her in a common
impulse. Joyce's attitude caused them to tiptoe across the room and peer covertly from behind the long
curtains. Without a word of explanation all were aware of their odd feeling of spying on the enemy — an
implacable enemy, yet one who is (how plainly we realize it when we see him off guard in the opposing
trench, busy at his poor affairs, cooking or washing his socks) so kin to ourselves. With the apprehensive
alertness of those whose lives may depend on their nimble observation, they watched the unconscious
group at the tea table.

"Daddy's taking three lumps," said Bunny. She spoke louder than is prudent in an outpost, and was
s-s-sh-ed.

"Your mother's got her elbow on the table," Ruth whispered.

"Daddy's smacking his lips and chomping," insisted Bunny.

"That's worse than talking with your mouth full."
"How queer they look when they laugh."

"Your mother lifts her head like a hen swallowing."

"Yours has her legs crossed."

"It's a form of nervousness."

"They do all the things they tell us not to," said Joyce.

"Look, he's reaching right across the table for another cake."

Martin watched his parents and their friends. What was there in the familiar scene that became strangely
perplexing? He could not have put it into words, but there was something in those voices and faces that
made him feel frightened, a little lonely. Was that really Mother, by the silver urn with the blue flame
flattened under it? He could tell by her expression that she was talking about things that belong to that
Other World, the thrillingly exciting world of Parents, whose secrets are so cunningly guarded. That
world changes the subject, alters the very tone of its voice, when you approach. He had a wish to run out
on the veranda, to reassure himself by the touch of her soft cool arm in the muslin dress. He wanted to
touch the teapot, to see if it was hot. If it was, he would know that all this was real. They had gone so far
away. Or were they also only playing a game?

"They look as though they were hiding something," he said.

"They're having fun," Phyllis said. "They always do; grown ups have a wonderful time."

"Come on," — Martin remembered that he was the host — "the ice cream will get cold." This was what
Daddy always said.

Bunny felt a renewed pride as she climbed into her place at the end of the table. Martin looked solemnly
handsome in his Eton collar across the shining spread of candlelight and cloth and pink peppermints. The
tinted glass panes above the sideboard were cheerful squares of colour against the wet grey afternoon.
She wriggled a little, to reëstablish herself on the slippery chair. "Our family is getting very grown up," she
said happily. "We're not going to have a nursery any more. It's going to be the guest room."

"I don't think I want to be grown up," said Alec suddenly. "It's silly. I don't believe they have a good time
at all."

This was a disconcerting opinion. Alec, as an older cousin, held a position of some prestige. A faint
dismay was apparent in the gazes that crossed rapidly in the sparkling waxlight.

"I think we ought to make up our minds about it," Martin said gravely. "Pretty soon, the way things are
going, we will be, then it'll be too late."

"Silly, what can you do?" said Phyllis. "Of course we've got to grow up, everyone does, unless they die."
Her tone was clear and positive, but also there was a just discernible accent of inquiry. She had not yet
quite lost her childhood birthright of wonder, of belief that almost anything is possible.

"We'd have to Take Steps," cried Alec, unconsciously quoting the enemy. "We could just decide among
ourselves that we simply wouldn't, and if we all lived together we could go on just like we are."

"It would be like a game," said Martin, glowing.

"With toys?" ejaculated Bunny, entranced.
Ben was firmly opposed. "I won't do it. I want to have long trousers and grow a moustache."

Martin's face was serious with the vision of huge alternatives.

"That's it," he said. "We've got to know before we can decide. It's terribly important. If they don't have a
good time, we'd better — "

"We could ask them if they're happy," exclaimed Ruth, thrilled by the thought of running out on the
veranda to propose this stunning question.

"They wouldn't tell you," said Alec. "They're too polite."

Phyllis was trying to remember instructive examples of adult infelicity. "They don't tell the truth," she
agreed. "Mother once said that if Daddy went on like that she'd go mad, and I waited and waited, and he
did and she didn't."

"You mustn't believe what they say," Martin continued. "They never tell the truth if they think children are
around. They don't want us to know what it's like."

"Perhaps they're ashamed of being grown up," Ben suggested.

"We must find out," Martin said, suddenly feeling in his mind the expanding brightness of an idea. "It'll be
a new game. We'll all be spies in the enemy's country, we'll watch them and see exactly how they
behave, and bring in a report."

"Get hold of their secret codes, and find where their forces are hidden," cried Ben, who liked the military
flavour of this thought.

"I think it's a silly game," said Phyllis. "You can't really find out anything; and if you did, you'd be
punished. Spies always get caught."

"Penalty of death!" shouted the boys, elated.

"It's harder than being a real spy," said Martin. "You can't wear the enemy's uniform and talk their
language. But I'm going to do it, anyhow."

"Me too!" Joyce exclaimed from the other end of the table, where she and Bunny had followed the
conversation with half-frightened excitement.

"I want to be a spy!" added Bunny.

"Mustn't have too many spies," said Alec. "The enemy would suspect something was up. Send one first,
he'll see what he can find and report to us."

It was not clear to Bunny exactly who the enemy were or how the spying was to be carried out; but if
Martin was to do it, it would be well done, she was certain. Spying, that suggested secrecy, and secrecy
—

"Martin has a little roll-top desk with a key!" she shouted. "Daddy gave it to him for his birthday."

"Oh, I forgot," said Phyllis. She ran out into the living room, and returned with a large parcel. "Many
happy returns," she said, laying it in front of Martin. If you listen intently, behind the innocent little phrase
you can overhear, like a whispering chorus, the voices of innumerable parents: "And don't forget, when
you give it to him, to say Many happy returns."
The others also hurried to get the packages that had been left in the vestibule. There was a great rattling
of paper and untying of string; an embarrassed reiteration of thankyous by Martin. He felt it awkward to
say the same thing again for each gift.

Hearing the movement in the dining room, the grown ups had now come in.

"Such a pretty sight."

"I love children's parties, their faces are always a picture."

"Martin, did you say thankyou to Alec for that lovely croquet set?"

"This is what I gave him," said Ben, pushing forward the parcheesi board.

"The girls are so dainty, like little flowers."

"Who is the little dark one, over by the window?"

"That's Joyce. — Why, Joyce dear, what are you crying about?"

The strong maternal voice rang through the room with a terrible publicity of compassion. The children
stared. Bunny ran and threw her arms round her friend, who had hidden her face in the curtain. Bunny
thought she knew what was wrong. Joyce had forgotten to bring a present, and was ashamed because all
the others had done so. The miserable little figure tried to efface itself in the curtain; even the tiny pearl
buttons at the back of her pink frock had come undone. Things that are close to us, how loyal they are,
how they follow the moods of their owners.

"There, there, honey, what's the trouble? After such a lovely party?" This was authoritative pity,
threateningly musical.

Bunny pressed her warm lips against a wet petal of nostril.

"Martin doesn't mind," she whispered. "He hates presents."

Joyce could feel powerful fingers buttoning the cool gap between her shoulders. When that was done she
would be turned round and asked what was the matter.

"Perhaps she has a pain," boomed a masculine vibration. "These parties always upset them. Worst thing
for children."

Joyce could smell a whiff of cigar and see large feet in white canvas shoes approaching. Best to face it
now before worse happens. She turned desperately, hampered by Bunny's embrace, almost throttling her
in an excess of affection. Breaking away she ran across the room, where Martin and the boys were
averting their eyes from the humiliation of the would-be spy. She thrust into his hand a tiny package,
damp now.

"It was so small," she said.

A moment of appalling silence hung over the trembling pair. Martin could feel it coming, the words "What
do you say, Martin?" seemed forming and rolling up over his head like opal banks of summer storm. Yet
he could not have said a word. He seized her hand and shook it, with a grotesque bob of his head.

"Such a little gentleman, how do you train them? I can't do anything with Ben, he's so rough."

Joyce was blotted out by a merciful hooded raincoat. As she struggled through its dark rubber-smelling
folds she could hear voices coming down from above.

"Alec, say good-bye to your little cousins — no, we must say your big cousins, mustn't we?"

"Thank Mrs. Richmond for such a nice party."

"Thank you, Mrs. Richmond, for such a nice party."

"Martin, you haven't opened Joyce's present."

"I don't want to open it," murmured Martin sullenly. Then he knew he had said the wrong thing.

"Don't want to open it? Why of course you want to open it. We don't measure presents by their size, do
we Joyce?"

Joyce, almost escaped, was drawn again into the arena.

"Come, Alec, we'll see what Joyce has given Martin and then you must go."

"I can't untie it, the string's wet," muttered Martin.

The watching circle drew closer.

"Wet? Nonsense. Here, give it to me."

Unfolding of sodden paper. A mouse of soft grey plush, with little glassy eyes and a long silky tail. And
two wheels under his stomach, a key to wind him by.

"Why, it's the mouse we saw in the window at the cigar store. Joyce was crazy about it."

"You see, Martin, she's given you a mouse because she wanted it so much for herself."

"It isn't very much, my dear, but there's so little to choose from, here in the country."

"It's like the mice we had on the nursery wallpaper," said Bunny, praising valiantly. "Wind it up and see it
run."

There are some situations that, once entered, must be carried through to the end. Martin wound. He
could tell by the feel of the key that something was wrong. "I'll play with it later," he said.

"Don't be so stubborn, Martin. We're all waiting to see it."

Joyce's gaze was riveted on the mouse. She remembered the ominous click in its vitals, when she had
been giving it an ecstatic trial. But perhaps Martin, with the magic boys have in these matters, could make
it go again, as it went — so thrillingly, in mouselike darts and curves — on the cigar-store floor.

Martin put it down, giving it a deft push. It ran a few inches and stopped.

"It runs fine," he said hastily. "But it won't go here on the rug."

"Let's see it," said Ben, whose mechanical sense was not satisfied by so brief an exhibition.

"It's mine," snapped Martin fiercely, and put it in his pocket.

"We really must go," said someone.
"Would you like a piece of Martin's cake to take home?"

"Oh, no, thank you, I think they've had plenty."

"Did you make a wish?"

"No, we forgot," said Martin.

"Oh, what a pity. When you blow out the candles on a birthday cake you should always make a wish."

"Will it come true?"

"If it's a nice wish."

"Light them again and do it now," said one of the parents. The drill must be finished.

"Yes, do, before the children go."

"Will it work if you light them again?" asked Martin doubtfully.

"Every bit as well."

The ten candles were reassembled on the remaining sector of cake, and Martin, feeling very
self-conscious, stood by while they were relit. His guests were pushed forward.

"All ready? Blow!"

There was a loud puffing. Bunny's blast, a little too late, blew a fragrant waver of smoke into his face.

"Did you wish?"

"Yes," said Martin, "I — "

"You mustn't tell it! If you tell it, it won't come true."

But he hadn't wished, yet. He wanted to wait a moment, to get it just right. As the children turned away,
trooping toward the door, Martin made one hasty movement that no one saw. With a quick slice of the
sharp cake-knife he cut off the tail of the plush mouse. Now it would always serve to remind him of the
tailless mice in the room that was no longer a nursery. Then, with the snuff of smoking candles still in his
nose, he wished.
                                                     II

"Dear Miss Clyde," wrote Mrs. Granville, "it will be so nice to meet you again after all these years. You
can imagine my surprise when I found that the house Mr. Granville has taken for the summer is the old
Richmond place, which I remember so well from long ago. Twenty-one years, isn't it? It hasn't changed a
bit, but everything seems so much smaller, even the ocean somehow. The house has been shut up a long
time, since the summer the Richmonds went away. We want you to join our Family Picnic, which is
always an amusing affair. Mr. Granville admires your work so much, I did not realize until recently that
you must be the same person I knew as a child. There are other artists here too, the Island has become
quite a summer camp for painters, the woods are full of them, painting away merrily. I am sorry this is so
late, but just send us a wire saying you can come. . . ."

She paused to reread the letter, and changed "so nice," in the first line, to "nice." She changed
"twenty-one" to "nearly twenty." She crossed out "painting away merrily." How do I know whether
they're merry? she asked herself. Then she noticed that the word "summer" was used three times. She
changed one of them to "year." No, that made three "years." Put "for the vacation" instead of "for the
summer." Now the letter must be copied again.

Why on earth George wanted her to invite the Clyde creature when things were complicated enough
already . . . she had never cared much for her even as a child . . . to have outsiders here for the Picnic
when they had only just got the old house in running order, and Lizzie was overworked in the kitchen,
and expenses terrific anyhow . . . George thought Miss Clyde might be the right person to do the pictures
for the booklet he was writing for the railroad company. Always thinking of his business first and her
convenience afterward. Business was something to be attended to in offices, not to be mixed up with
your home life. Never try to make social friends of your business acquaintances, how many times had she
told George that?

Damn the Picnic, damn the Picnic, damn the Picnic!

Of course she had only brought down one sheet of paper; now she must go up again for more. The
dining table was the single place in the house she could write a letter. If she halted in the bedroom in a
moment Nounou was at the door with endless this that and the other about the children. If she sat down
on the porch, Lizzie could see her from the pantry window and would come at once with stentorian
palaver. Why couldn't a cook do what she was told, not argue about it? In the little sitting room George
had spread out his business papers; anyhow, she couldn't bear him near her when she wanted to write.
And in the garden it was too hot. A bumblebee was bumping and grumbling against the pane. If you took
a cloth and held him, to put him outdoors, his deep warm hum would rise to a piercing scream of anger.
She felt like that. If any one touched her . . .

The bee was fussing up and down the window, the one with red and blue and orange panes. She
remembered that window from childhood visits to the Richmonds. When you looked through the orange
glass, the purest sky turned a leaden green, dull with menace; the clear northern sunlight became a
poisoned tropic glare. And the blue panes made everything a crazy cold moonscape, with strange
grapejuice colours underneath the leaves. It reminded her of George's favourite remark, in moments of
stress, that women's conduct is entirely physiological. Ponderous pedantry! Vulgar too. Physiology, a
hateful word. Suddenly she felt an immense pity for all women . . . even Miss Clyde. She went up to the
bedroom to get another sheet of paper.

George had actually moved the bureau at last, so that the light fell justly on the mirror. Yes, the pale green
dress was pretty. Like lettuce and mayonnaise, George had said, admiring the frail yellow collar. It
brought out the clear blue of the eyes, like sluiced pebbles. She was almost amazed (looking closely) to
see how clear they were, after so many angers, so much — physiology. One can be candid in solitude.
Thirty-four. What was that story she had read, which said that a woman is at her most irresistible at
thirty-five? Mother had sent it to her, in a magazine, and had written in the margin True of my Phyllis.
She laughed. What a merciless comedy life is. Ten years before, Mother would have marked in the same
way any story that said twenty-five. Was there no such thing as truth? Blessed Mother, who knew that
woman must be flattered. A pity that story hadn't been in a book instead of a magazine. Books carry
more authority. . . . But books, pooh! Who had ever written a book that told the innermost truth? Thank
God, in her secret heroic self she was aware of joy and disgust, but she kept them private. Truth is about
other people, not about me. A woman doesn't bear and rear three children . . . bring them into the world,
a comelier phrase . . . and cohabit with a queer fish like George without knowing what life amounts to.
And how enviable she was: young, pretty, slender, with three such adorable kiddies.

"I don't care, there won't be any one at the Picnic prettier. I was made to be happy and I'm going to be."

She hummed a little tune. "Jesus lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly." George was vulgar, but he
was amusing. When the beetle buzzed down inside her blouse at the beach supper, tickling and crawling
so far that she had to go into the bushes to take him out, George said "That must have been the
bosom-fly you're always singing about." Sometimes it seemed as though the world was made for the
vulgar people, there are always so many ridiculous embarrassments lying in wait for the sensitive. When
the wind blew, her skirts always went higher than any one else's. She would wear the new pink camisole
at the Picnic, that fitted very snugly . . . still, a thing like that bosom-fly would hardly happen twice.
George always wanted to take jam and sardines on a picnic; sticky stuff that attracts the bees and ants.
Fortunately we're all wearing knickers nowadays. . . . Poor old blundering, affectionate, and maddening
George. Still it was something to have married a man with brains. There were so many, so much more
attractive, she could have had, as Mother (dear loyal Mother) often reminded her. It's a good thing
people don't know what mothers and married daughters talk about. That is the rock that life is founded
upon: an alliance against the rest of the world. Away off in the future, when her own daughters were
married, she would have them to confide in. You must have someone to whom you can say what you
think. But which of the three? You can't confide in more than one. Three little girls, three darling little girls,
like dolls. Thank goodness there wasn't a boy to grow up like George: obstinate, greedy, always wanting
to do the wrong thing . . . it was enough to break any woman's spirit, trying to teach a man to do things
the way nice people do them. If George wanted to lead an unconventional life, he ought to have been an
artist, not gone in for business. . . . And such a crazy kind of business, Publicity, now working for one
company, now for another, here there and everywhere, neither flesh nor fowl nor good red income. A
man ought to have a settled job, with an office in some fixed place, so you always know where he is. A
country club is a good thing for a husband, too, where he can meet the right sort of men (how handsome
they are in those baggy breeches and golf stockings), lawyers and a banker or two, influential men with
nice manners. You can always 'phone to the clubhouse and leave word; or drive up in the coupé (it ought
to be a coupé) and bring him home to dinner. She could hear voices, voices of young pretty wives (not
too young, not quite as pretty) : "Who is that in the green dress, with the three little girls all dressed alike,
aren't they cunning! — Oh, that's Mrs. Granville, Mrs. George Granville, her husband's in the advertising
business, he adores her."

Where was the box of notepaper? The children must have been at it, the top had been jammed on
carelessly, split at one corner. Of all annoying things, the worst is to have people pawing in your bureau;
there isn't any key, of course. How can a woman be happy if she can't even have any privacy in her own
bureau drawer? If George ever wants anything he always comes rummaging here first of all. The other
day it was the little prayerbook. — Why, George, what do you want with a prayerbook? I thought you
were an atheist. — So I am, but I want to strengthen my disbelief. I was beginning to weaken. — What a
way to talk. George is an atheist, but he believes in religion for other people: because it makes them more
unselfish, I dare say. Yet, in a queer way, George has a pious streak. Perhaps he's really more religious
than I am.The only thing I have against God is that He's a man . . . not a man, but . . . well, Masculine.
How can He understand about the special troubles of women? That must be the advantage of being a
Catholic, you pray to the Virgin. She can understand. But can She? After all, a Virgin . . . I mustn't let
my mind run on like this, it's revolting the things you find yourself thinking.

From the bay window at the head of the stairs, over the garden and the sweep of grassy hill, she could
see the water. Along the curve of shore, a thin crisp of foam edging the tawny sand. If she didn't get off
that letter to Miss Clyde it would be too late for her to come to the Picnic. The Brooks were coming this
afternoon. It was Nounou's evening off, too. What perfect weather. This lovely world, this lovely world.
Oh, well, if George wanted the Picnic now, she might as well go through with it.

As she went down, George was in the hall, lighting his pipe. He looked very tall and ruddy and cheerful:
almost handsome in his blue linen shirt and flannel trousers. An eddy of smoke rose about his head. She
halted on the stairs.

"George! Don't puff so much smoke. I want to see the top of your head . . . I do believe it's getting thin."

"How pretty you look," he said. "I like the green shift."

He enjoyed calling things by wrong names, and the word shift always amused him. He found words
entertaining, a habit that often annoyed her. But this time she did not stop to correct him.

"You ought to wear a rubber cap when you go bathing. The salt water gets your hair all sticky, and then
the comb tears it out. I don't mind your being an atheist, but I'd hate you to be bald."

He blew a spout of tobacco smoke up at her. It was extraordinarily fragrant. Oh, well, she thought, he's
not a bad old thing. He's endurable.

"George." She intended to say, "I love you." But of their own accord the words changed themselves
before they escaped into voice.

"George, do you love me?"

He made his usual unsatisfactory reply. "Well, what do you think?" Of course the proper answer is, "I
adore you." She knew, by now, that he never would make it; probably because he was aware she
craved it.

"I'm writing Miss Clyde to come to the Picnic."

He looked a little awkward.

"Needn't do that, I wrote to her yesterday. I said you were busy and wanted me to ask her."

"Well, of all things — "

She curbed herself savagely. She wouldn't lose her temper. Damn, damn, damn . . . his damned
impudence.

"When is she coming?"

"I don't know yet. Tomorrow morning, I dare say."

"Well, then, we'll have the Picnic tomorrow, get it over with."

He began to say something, put out his hand, but she brushed fiercely past him and ran into the dining
room. She tore her letter into shreds, together with the clean sheet she had brought down. The room was
full of a warm irritating buzz.

"George!" she cried angrily, with undeniable command. "Come here and put out this damned bee!"
                                                      III

The kitchen was hot, flies were zigzagging just under the ceiling, swerving silly triangles of ecstasy in the
rising savour of roast and sizzling gravy.

"Lizzie, you must keep the screen door latched. There was a big bee in the dining room. That's how they
get in. — Where are the children?"

"It's that man, he always leaves it open."

"The ice man? Well, speak to him about it."

"No, ma'am, the one in the garden. The one Nounou took 'em down to the beach to get away from. She
didn't think he was quite right."

What on earth was Lizzie talking about?

"A man in the garden? What's he doing here?"

"I gave him a piece of cake. He saw it in the pantry window and asked for some. Then he was in again
for a glass of water."

Another problem. Life is just one perplexity after another. But there must be some explanation.

"He asked for a piece of cake? Who is he, the gardener?"

Lizzie was flushed with heat and impatience. Her voice rose shrilly.

"He didn't exactly ask for it, but he was lookin' in the window at it and he says, 'They always give me a
piece of cake when I want it.' No, he ain't the gardener. I don't know who he is. I thought maybe a friend
of yours, one o' the artists. He was playin' with the kids."

She stepped outside, resolutely attempting not to think. Automatically she adjusted the lid of the garbage
can. But the mind insists on thinking. Was it better for the can to stand, there in the sun, or to go in the
cellar entry where it would be cooler? Sunlight is a purifier: the heat would tend to dry the moist refuse . .
. but the sun attracts flies too. She stooped to lift the can, then paused, abandoned the problem, left it
where it was. Just like George to have rented an old-fashioned barracks like this, not even gas for
cooking. No wonder the place had stood empty for years and years. The idea of cooking with coal in
July. If the oil range didn't come soon Lizzie would quit, she could see it in her face. The ice box was too
small. If they took enough ice to last through the day, there was no room for the ginger-ale bottles. She
had known it would be like this.

The garden seemed to sway and tremble in brilliant light. A warm sweetness of flowers floated lightly, the
air was not really hot after all. Why did Nounou let the children leave their croquet mallets lying all
anyhow about the lawn? Remind George that Nounou's wages will be due on the twenty-third. If you
don't remind George of those things he complains about being taken by surprise. Beyond the hedge of
rose bushes, a blue glimpse of water. It was a heavenly place. There must be some consolation in a
garden like this. If one could breathe it in deeply and not think, not think, just slack off the everlasting
tension for a few moments. Of course it's quite useless, but I'm going to pray. God, please help me not to
think. . . . In France, Catholics say vous to God, and Protestants say tu. That's rather curious. . . . There,
I'm thinking again. No wonder the artists come here in summer, the Island is so lovely. Loafers, that's
what they are, idling about enjoying themselves making pictures while other people plan the details of
meals and housekeeping . . . and Picnics. She could imagine Miss Clyde sitting in the garden sketching,
relishing it all, romping with the children, while she was doing the marketing. Are there enough blankets
for the guest-room bed? And with only one bathroom . . . Miss Clyde is probably the kind of person
who takes a terrible long time over her bath.

The strip of beach gravel that led toward the rose-trellis was warm and crackly underfoot. Among the
grey pebbles were small bleached shells. Once upon a time, she had told the children, those shells
belonged to snails who lived in the sea. When the tide went out, their little rocky pool got warm and
torpid in the glare. Then the sea came back again, crumbling over the ledges with a fresh hoarse noise:
great gushes of cold salty water pouring in, waving the seaweeds, waking up the crabs. She could
imagine the reviving snails wriggling happily in their spiral cottages, feeling that coolness prickle along their
skins. She would like to lie down on the gravel and think about this. Would reality, joy, truth, ever come
pouring in on her like that? There was a bench in the rose-garden, if she could get so far. When things are
a bit too much for one (fine true old phrase: they are just a little too much for us, adorable torturing
things) it's so strangely comforting to lie flat on sun-warmed earth . . . the legend of Antaeus . . . but not
here, Lizzie could see her from that synoptic pantry window. How large a proportion of life consists in
heroically denying the impulse? But just round this corner, behind the shrubbery —

Someone was doing it already. Oh, this must be the man Lizzie spoke of. How very odd, sprawled on
the gravel, playing with pebbles. Lizzie must have been right, one of the artists. Unconventional, to come
into a private garden like that . . . asking for a piece of cake. Never be surprised, though, at artists.
Perhaps he's doing a still-life painting: something very modern, a slice of cocoanut cake on a lettuce leaf.
Artists (she had a vague idea) enjoyed making pictures of food. But he'd been playing with the children,
Lizzie said. What sort of person would play with children before being introduced to their parents?
Perhaps he wanted to do a portrait of them.

Portraits of children were better done with the mother, who could keep them quiet . . . I always think
there's no influence like a mother's, don't you? . . . On the bench in the rose-garden, that would be the
place. She could see the picture, reproduced in Vanity Fair . . . Green Muslin: Study of Mrs. George
Granville and Her Daughters. But even if it were painted at once it couldn't possibly be printed in a
magazine before next — when? January? George would know about that. But strange the man didn't get
up, he must hear her coming. He looked like a gentleman.

"How do you do?" she said, a little coldly.

He was studying the pebbles; at the sound of her voice he twisted and looked up over his shoulder. He
seemed faintly shy, yet also entirely composed.

"Hullo!" he said. "I mean, how do you do." His voice was very gentle. (How different from George.)
Something extraordinary about his way of looking at her; what clear hazel eyes. Instead of offering any
explanation he seemed waiting for her to say something. She had confidently expected a quick scramble
to his feet, a courteous apology for intruding. She felt a little angry at herself for not being able to speak
as reprovingly as he deserved. But there was a crumb on his chin, somehow this weakened her. A man
who would come into people's gardens and ask for cake and not even wipe the crumbs off his chin. He
must be someone rather special.

"You're doing just what I wanted to," she said.

He looked at her, still with that placid inquiry.

"I mean lying on the ground, in the sun."

"It's nice," he said.
Really, of all embarrassing situations. If he didn't get up, she felt that in another minute she would be
sprawling there herself. A very ungraceful pose for the portrait: Mrs. George Granville and Her
Daughters, prone on the gravel. Women ought not to lie like that anyway, it humps up the sitting-part so
obviously. Yet they always do in bathing suits, most candid of all costumes. . . . Perhaps for that very
reason. What queer contradictions there are in good manners. This was too absurd. Thank goodness, he
was getting to his feet. The crumb shone in the sunlight, it adhered to his chin with some of Lizzie's sticky
white icing.

"Was the cake good?" She meant this to be rather cutting, and was pleased to see him look a little
frightened.

"Awfully good." Now he looked hopeful, rather like a dog. She could not altogether understand the
queer way he had of studying her: steadily, yet without any of the annoying or alarming intimations that
long gazes usually suggest. But he made no movement to leave.

"I suppose you're waiting for another piece."

"Yes," he said, smiling.

Now, she felt, she had him trapped. This would destroy him.

"You haven't finished the first."

He understood at once, and ran his tongue toward his chin until he found the crumb. She watched it
disappear with the feeling of having lost an ally. She had counted on that crumb to humiliate him with.

"All gone," he announced gaily. What could one do with a man like that?

"I suppose you're an artist." Not knowing what else to do she had turned toward the house, and he was
walking with her. He was tall and pleasantly dressed and had rather a nice way of walking: politely
tentative, yet with plenty of assurance.

"I'm Martin."

Her mind made little rushes one way and another, trying to think if she had heard of him. He must be very
famous, to give his name with such easy simplicity. Why do I know so little about art? she asked herself.
Well, how can I keep up with things, there's always so much to do. It's George's fault, expecting me to
run a big house. If we'd gone to the Inn . . . what are the names of the famous painters? Sargent was the
only one she could think of. She could see George at the pantry window. In a moment she would have to
introduce them, what should she say? What was George doing in the pantry?

"George, let that cake alone!" she called. It sounded a pleasant humorous cry, but George's well-tuned
ear caught the undertone of fury. That was just like George. Whenever he was angry or upset he went to
the pantry and got himself something to eat.

"I was saving the cake for the Picnic," she explained.

"A Picnic!" said the stranger. His brown face was bright with interest. "When?"

If George could invite people to the Picnic, why shouldn't she? By the way, I mustn't forget to order
some sardines.

"Where are you staying?" she asked.
Apparently he didn't understand this, for he replied, "I don't mind." He was looking at the pantry window,
where George's guilty face peered out from behind the wire screen.

"How funny he looks, like a guinea-pig in a cage," he said.

That was exactly what George did look like, squinting out into the sunshine. The end of his nose, pressed
against the mesh, was white and red, like a half-ripe strawberry.

"George, this is Mr. Martin, the famous artist. He's coming to our Picnic."
                                                      IV

George was in a fidget, in the little sitting room that opened off the hall. It was just under the stairs and
when any one went up or down he could hear the feet and couldn't help pausing to identify them by the
sound. It was astonishing how many footsteps passed along those stairs: and if they ceased for a while it
was no better, for he found himself subconsciously waiting for the next and wondering whose they would
be. He had laid out his maps and papers and the portable typewriter, all ready to begin work: the draft of
his booklet on Summer Tranquillity (for the Eastern Railroad) would soon be due.

His mind was too agitated to compose, but he began clattering a little on the machine, at random, just to
give the impression that he was working. Why should any one invent a 'noiseless' typewriter, he
wondered? The charm of a typewriter was that it did make a noise, a noise that shut out the racket other
people were making. What a senseless idea, to imagine that he could really get some work done here,
buried in the country. He could not concentrate because there was nothing to concentrate from. There
was only the huge vacancy of golden summer, droning pine trees, yawning beaches, the barren pagan
earth under a crypt of air. The world shimmered like a pale jewel with a flame of uneasiness at its core.
The place to write about Summer Tranquillity would have been that hot secret little office of his in town,
where the one window opened like a furnace door into a white blaze of sunshine, where perspiration
dripped from his nose on the typewriter keys, but where he had the supreme sensation of intangible
solitude.

What on earth were they walking about for, upstairs? Was she showing the man the whole house? He
looked distractedly across the garden. The listless beaming of the summer noon lay drowsy upon the
lawn, filling him with an appalling sense of his absurd futility. As Phyllis had so often said, he was neither
business man nor artist. What the devil was he working for, what goal was there, what fine flamboyant
achievement was possible? He had a feeling of being alone against the world, a poor human clown
wrestling with grotesque obsessions; and no longer really young. He leaned toward the glass-paned
bookcase, tilting his head anxiously to see the reflection of the top . . . certainly it was receding in a V
above each temple — but that made the forehead seem higher. He had always believed that, among
advertising men, he looked rather more intellectual . . . he turned again to the window, a little ashamed of
his agitations. Beyond the glass veranda he caught the stolid gaze of the cook at the pantry window. He
averted his head quickly: ridiculous that you can't do anything without catching someone's eye. All this
was just insanity. He took up the page he was working on and rolled it into the typewriter. Page 38 . . .
like himself, thirty-eight, and forty only two pages away. I suppose that at forty a man feels just as young
as ever, but . . . it's absurd to feel as young as I do, at thirty-eight. . . . Well, I must keep my mind clear
(he thought, rather pathetically) — it's the only capital we have.

Phyllis's footsteps were coming downstairs. He was always worried when he heard them like that: slow
and light, pausing every few treads. That meant she was thinking about something, and in a minute there
would be a new problem for him to consider. When he heard them like that he usually rushed into the
hall, demanding hotly, "Well, what is it now?"

"What is what?"

"You know I can't work when you come downstairs like that."

"Like what?"

"As though you were worrying."

"Well, why didn't you take a house where I could slide down the banisters?"
This time the feet came down so slowly he felt sure she wanted him to rush out. The rushing out always
put him in the wrong. Well, he just wouldn't. He would stay where he was, that would show her he was
indignant. He took out page 38, put in a blank sheet and rattled the keys vigorously. But he felt cheated
of a sensation. He always enjoyed bursting out, through the door at the foot of the stairs, and catching her
transfixed on the landing, with the big windows behind her — half frightened, half angry. He would not
have told her so, but it was partly because she was so pretty there: the outline of her comely defiant head
against the light, her smooth arm emerging from the dainty sleeve that caught and held a pearly brightness.
How lovely she is, he thought; it's gruesome for her to be so pretty and talk such nonsense . . . she needs
someone to pump her full of indigestible compliments, that would silence her —

She was at the telephone. He could hear her talking to the grocer. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cotswold, is it too late
to catch the driver? I've got some unexpected guests . . ."

He hastened into the hall. "Don't forget the sardines," he shouted.

She looked at him calmly with the instrument at her mouth. She seemed surprisingly tranquil.

"Never mind, then, thank you," she said to Mr. Cotswold, in the particularly cordial and gracious voice
which (George felt) was meant to emphasize the coolness with which she would now speak to him.

"If you want sardines you'll have to go down and get them yourself. The driver's left."

She went into the sitting room and automatically pulled the blind halfway down. He followed her and
raised it to the top of the window again. She sat on the couch, and he was surprised to see a dangerous
merriment in her face.

"I suppose you think you can shut yourself in here and just let the house run itself," she said. "Like a
sardine."

"I have to do my work, don't I?"

She looked at the sheet in the typewriter, on which was written wildly Now is the time for all good men
to come to the aid of this absurd family. But she did not comment on it, and George felt that this was
one of her moments of genius. He wondered, in alarm, what she was going to do with him next. He felt
helpless as only a husband can.

"Well, anyhow, they pack sardines in oil, not in vinegar," he said angrily. This sounded so silly it made him
angrier still. He closed the door and cried in a fierce undertone, "What's the idea, this man Martin? Who
is he? Is he staying for lunch?"

"He's an artist. I thought you liked artists."

"Yes, but we don't have to fill the house with 'em."

"I've put him in the spare room."

"In the spare room! What about Miss Clyde?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. He seemed to expect it, somehow. He's a very irresistible person."

"I guess I can resist him. If we've got to have him in the house we can put him in here, on the couch."

"It's too late. He's in the spare room now, washing his hands.You needn't have been so rude when I
brought him in."
"I didn't like his looks," George mumbled.

This wasn't true. George had liked his looks, but he had resented (as must every man burdened with
many perplexities) that gay and careless air. He looks as if he didn't have a thing on earth to worry about,
George thought. And he comes floating in here, with casual ease. among the thousand interlocking
tensions of George's difficulties, to gaze with untroubled eye on his host's restless alertness. Or was this
some sort of joke that Phyllis was putting over on him?

"I'm going to put the two older children on the sleeping porch, so Ben and Ruth can have their room.
Miss Clyde will have to go on this couch."

"How about me?"

"Well, we can sleep together I suppose. It won't kill us, for a few nights."

Not if I know it, George thought. That old walnut bedstead, with the deep valley in the middle, so that we
both keep rolling against one another. Unless you clutch the post and lie on a slope all night. Besides,
Phyl is so changeable in temperature. When she goes to bed she's chilly and wants to kindle her feet
against you. Then by and by she gets warmed up and it's like sleeping with a hot bottle five feet long. On
a night in July, too. Whenever I get comfortable, she wants to turn over on the other side; that brings us
face to face. Impossible! How unexpected life is. If any one had told me, twelve years ago, that it would
be so irritating to sleep in the same bed with a pretty woman, I wouldn't have believed it. Phyl doesn't
like it either, yet she was annoyed by that booklet I wrote for the Edwards Furniture Company on The
Joys of the Separate Bed. I'll sleep on the window seat in the upstairs hall. No: that won't do, if Miss
Clyde is in the den she'll have to be coming upstairs to the bathroom and Phyl won't like me spread out
there in public. It's funny: sleeping is the most harmless thing people ever do, why are they so furtive
about it?

But George rather liked the idea of Miss Clyde on his couch. It seemed, somehow, to add piquancy to a
dull situation. To conceal this private notion, he argued against it.

"Miss Clyde will be a long way from the bathroom," he said.

"There's no other place to put her. You're always talking about artists, their fine easy ways, I guess she
won't mind if someone sees her in a wrapper."

She'd look charming in a wrapper, George thought. The queer little boyish thing! I can just imagine her. It
would be blue, a kind of filmy blue crêpe. Coming up the stairs the morning sunlight would catch her,
through those big windows: her small curves delicately outlined in a haze of soft colour, her hair tousled, a
flash of white ankle as she reached the top step. He would sit up on the window seat, as though just
drowsily awakened. Oh . . . good-morning! Good-morning. What a picture you would make. Silhouette
Before Breakfast. Life is full of so many heavenly pictures. . . . The bay window above the garden would
be calm and airy in the before-breakfast freshness of July; the house just beginning that dreamy stir that
precedes the affairs of day. She would come across to him . . . he had hardly dared admit, even to
himself, how far they had gone in imagination.

"I'm damned if I want strange women careering all over the house in their wrappers," he said with
well-simulated peevishness.

"Bosh!" exclaimed Phyllis. "There's nothing you'd like better. Unless without their wrappers."

"What's the use of being vulgar?" he said. He thought: How gorgeous Phyllis is. You can't fool her.
Poor old George, thought Phyllis. I believe he imagines that he's attractive to women. But I won't say that
to him, he's in such a stew already.

"Miss Clyde is one of the most truly refined people I ever met."

This didn't quite succeed. Phyllis was always annoyed when George attempted to bunco her. He was so
transparent.

"I believe you imagine you're attractive to women," she said.

"Hell," he said, "I don't even take time to think about it."

"If that were true, you'd be much more so."

If I'd finished this cursed booklet, he thought, I'd take a little time off and be attractive to women, just to
surprise her. Why, damnation, I could even make Phyl fall in love with me if it was worth taking the
trouble. The way to please women is to show them that you know they're not happy. And that their
special kind of unhappiness is a particularly subtle and lonely one, but curable by sympathy. But it's better
not to think about these things at all. It's queer to think of all the people in the world, and how troubled
they are when they look each other straight in the eyes. If I knew why that is, I'd know everything. The
devil of it is, women have begun to think. That's why everything is so uneasy. Why even Phyllis has begun
to think. I mustn't let her, because she's too fond of being comfortable. It'll only upset her. She must be
kept amused. That's the beauty of money, it's a substitute for thinking. It can surround you with delightful
distractions. It's like women, too: it comes to the fellows who know how to entertain it. I must learn how
to be attractive to money.

"Certainly, Phyl, no one can say that you're attractive to women. You're too pretty." He leaned over and
kissed the end of her nose. There, perhaps that would calm her, he might still be able to do half an hour's
writing before the children came back from the beach. That was the only solution. Simplify, simplify life
by burying yourself in some work of imagination — such as the Eastern Rail way booklet. He smiled
bitterly. Those were the only happy people, the artists — immersed in dreams like frogs in a pond, only
their eyes bulging just above the surface. But how are you going to attain that blissful absorption?
Dominate the ragings of biology by writing railroad folders? The whole universe turns contrary, he
thought, to the one who wants to create. Time is against him, carnal distraction, the natural indolence of
man. Yes, even God is against him: God, Who invented everything and is jealous of other creators. If
Phyllis hadn't been there, he would have fallen on his knees by the couch and told God what he thought
of Him.

They heard someone coming downstairs. Phyllis rose.

"Come in, Mr. Martin! See the nice little den where George does his work."
                                                      V

George is carving the meat. He always feels better at meal times. The trouble with me, he thinks, is that I
take things too seriously. I dare say I haven't any sense of humour. Let's see if we can't make a sort of
fresh start from this moment.

The three little girls are brown and gay. Phyllis looks tired, but busily exhibits that staccato sprightliness
that comes over her when there are guests. This Mr. Martin seems a silent fellow. The children stare at
him, and seem to have some joke among themselves; Sylvia and Rose nudge each other and giggle. I
always think it's a mistake to let the two younger ones sit side by side. But Mr. Martin seems unaware of
them: his eyes are fixed on Phyllis with a cheerful watchfulness. He's a solemn bird, thinks George, but he
has the good taste to admire Phyl. I hope he won't overdo it, for her sake. She can't stand much
admiring: it goes to her head right away.

"Well," Phyllis says, "this is really delightful. A distinguished guest is just what we needed to make the
Picnic a success. Children, don't kick the legs of the table. — Mr. Granville is so fond of artists, he
employs such a lot of them in his business. Of course, I dare say your kind of work is quite different, but
there must be a lot of painters who wouldn't know what to do if it weren't for the little advertising jobs
that come along. We're so happy to be in the country again. Of course we live very simply, but Mr.
Granville can always work so well when he gets away from the office. I feel so sorry for the men who
have to be in town all summer."

George feels a violent impulse to contradict her, but masters it. Phyl, he says, ask Lizzie to bring a spoon
for the gravy. She always forgets it. — Mr. Martin, I'll tell you the kind of people we are, we never have
a carving knife sharp enough to cut with.

"Well, George, it's not our own carving knife. You see, Mr. Martin, we took this house furnished. It's not
like having our own things."

Our own isn't any better, George's voice shouts angrily inside his head, but he manages to keep it from
coming out.

Are we going to the Haunted House for the Picnic? the children ask.

Not unless you take your elbows off the table, Phyllis says sharply. Mr. Martin, who looks puzzled, takes
his elbows off too.

There's a poor old tumbledown farm, on a sandy cliff, among dark pine trees, Phyllis explains. Someone
has told the children that it's haunted. The word means nothing to them, but they can tell — by the way
people say it — that it suggests something interesting.

Yes, if it doesn't rain, George says. He is too experienced a parent ever to make positive promises.

This would have been a good day for cold meat and salad, he thinks, sawing away at the
joggling-slippery roast. Phyllis sees him thinking it. "I'm sorry to have hot meat on such a warm day, but
we'll need it tomorrow for the sandwiches. There's some iced tea coming."

"Hot meat to make your inside hot, iced tea to make it cold," the children exclaim. "Do we have to eat
the fat?"

They always ask this question. Then Mr. Martin asks it too, which causes amusement. How delightful
Mr. Martin is, Phyllis thinks. He has a sort of eagerness to be happy, to enjoy things, to move blithely
from one minute to the next. Even George feels it, he looks less cross. But George, as he takes down a
tall glass of iced tea in one draught, is making calmly desperate resolves. I haven't the faintest idea what
anything means, he is telling himself, but I'm just going to go on placidly. I'll go cracked if I keep on
worrying. Maybe after lunch I can take a snooze in the garden. One of the little girls wriggles happily on
her chair, her pink frock has slipped sideways on her smooth brown shoulder, showing the frilled strap of
her shirt. With a gentle twitch George pulls her dress straight and pats the child's golden nape. She looks
at him with innocent affection. That little bare shoulder makes him think of women and their loveliness,
and all the torments of unease to which these same poor youngsters must grow up. He concentrates his
mind on the blue and white platter, the brown gravy dimpled with clear circles of fat and turning ruddy as
the juice of the roast trickles down, the amber tea with slices of lemon. Thank Heaven Time still lies
before them all like an ocean. Even he and Phyllis are young, they don't need to do anything definite
about life, not yet. Keep your mind on the small beautiful details, the crackling yield of bread-crust under
the knife, the wide hills over the sea, sunset on open spaces that evaporates all passion, all discontent. He
picks up his napkin from the rug, helps himself to vegetables, and begins to eat. How delicious life is,
even for an abject fool like me, he thinks. I wonder if any one ever feels old?

"The Picnic is our great annual adventure," Phyllis was saying. "I hope you won't think us too silly, but
we do look forward to it enormously. It's such fun to forget about things once in a while and just have a
good time."

"Yes," said George, "we worry about it for weeks beforehand. And we always invite more people than
the house can properly hold."

Phyllis flashed a little angry brightness across the table.

"You mustn't think us too informal if things are a bit crowded, that's part of the fun."

"What is informal?" asked Mr. Martin, quite gravely.

George smiled. Why, the man was kidding her.

"Informal's what women always say they're going to be and never are."

"George loves to lay down the law about women, Mr. Martin. As a matter of fact he knows nothing
about them. I expect you know more than he does, even if you're a bachelor."

"Is there a lot to know?" said Mr. Martin.

The man's delightful, thought George.

I never felt as queer as this before, thought Phyllis. I feel as though something astonishing were going to
happen. Or worse still, as though nothing would ever happen. How many sandwiches will we need?
Three children, two of us, Mr. Martin, Ben and Ruth, Miss Clyde that makes nine. When this gruesome
Picnic is over, perhaps I shall have a chance to ease up. I feel as though I should like to fall in love with
someone. I wonder if Mr. Martin would do?

"Mr. and Mrs. Brook are coming this evening," she said gaily. "You'll like them, they're charming."

"As a matter of fact," said George (she always knew, when he began with that phrase, that he was going
to contradict her), "they're the dullest people on earth; so completely dull that you can't help envying
them. They're the perfect mates, too stupid even to disagree with each other. If every other couple in the
world went smash, marriage would still be justified by Ben and Ruth."

"How do couples go smash?" asked Janet.
"You finish your beans and don't talk," said Phyllis.

She was pleasantly fluttered by the way Mr. Martin looked at her. His eyes kept returning from his plate:
lingering on her face with a gently inquiring studiousness that was not at all offensive. I believe he really
does want to do a portrait of me, she thought. He's fixing the features in his mind. She turned her head
toward Sylvia and Rose so that he would see the half-profile with an appealing madonna softness upon it.
The coloured glass panes behind her, what a vivid background that would make. — But she felt he was
about to ask a question, and allowed her eyes to come round to meet him, to make it easier for him.
Obviously he was shy.

"Do I have to finish my beans?" he said.

What a difficult question to answer. There must be some joke that she did not see.

"Beans make bones," asserted Rose fatuously.

"Why, of course not," she said hastily. "I was afraid that cocoanut cake would take away your appetite."
No, that was the wrong thing to say; she saw George's face sharpen at the mention of the cake: he was
getting ready to blurt out something and she felt sure it would be awkward. With the speed of a hunted
animal her mind dodged in search of some remark that would give her time to think.

"I like the English way of serving beans, slicing them lengthwise, you know; it makes them so tender,
without any strings." There; surely that would dispose of the absurd topic. "George, what are you going
to do this afternoon? Go for a swim?"

"But these are string beans," said George. "They're supposed to have strings. Perhaps Mr. Martin misses
them."

"If he doesn't finish his beans, Virginia can have them," Sylvia suggested. "She eats vegetables
sometimes."

Virginia was the cat, just now obviously misnamed. Phyllis knew very well what was coming next, but she
could not speak fast enough to avert it.

"Beans will be good for her," said Janet with enthusiasm. "She's going to have a family very soon, she
needs nourishing food."

"Mother says she mustn't have a shock, it might be bad for the kittens."

"That'll do, never mind about Virginia."

Lizzie was making grimaces from the kitchen door, holding up a cup custard and contorting a red face of
inquiry. Phyllis nodded. But perhaps Lizzie means there aren't enough custards to go round? "Oh, Lizzie,
put on the fruit too."

George, with his damnable persistence, had not forgotten.

"How about the cake?" he asked.

"George, you know we've got to save the cake for the Picnic. I can't ask Lizzie to make another one."

"It's been cut already," he said.

I'm not going to be humiliated like this in front of a stranger. George is just doing it because he sees Mr.
Martin admires me. Will this meal never end? I'm past battling over trifles. Have the cake if you want it. I
don't care. If Lizzie puts it on, all right. Leave it to her. I'm not going to order it on. Cooks always take
the man's side anyhow. I'm afraid Mr. Martin will think we're lunatics.

"What do you think of a husband that always knows exactly what's in the pantry?" she asked him.

A moment later she couldn't remember what he had said to this. Perhaps it's because I'm so absorbed in
my own thoughts. The only thing I really remember his saying was his comical question whether he need
finish his beans. It's odd, how much he conveys without saying anything, just by a look.

Lizzie had put on the cake. Phyllis saw at once that there were only six custards. She could tell, by the
way Lizzie planked them down, there were no more in the kitchen. If they all took one there wouldn't be
any for Lizzie herself, and that would mean bad temper. She refused the custard. She wanted a peach,
but felt that the effort of peeling it was too much. Soft fuzzy skin and wet fingers. Then George, with that
occasional insight that always surprised her, passed her one peeled and sliced.

"Yes," he said, "we ought to have a bathe, unless there's a storm. Relieve the pressure on the bathroom."

"Then we'll all be nice and clean for the Picnic," exclaimed the children.

"Miss Clyde is coming," George continued. "She's an artist too, perhaps Mr. Martin knows her."

"Bring the jug of iced tea in the garden, let's finish it out there," said Phyllis. "It's stifling here.Children, you
go and get your naps."

The little table was under the pine trees, the other side of the croquet oval. The grove smelt warm and
slippery. Now there are the long hours of the afternoon to be lived through, somehow. George sprawled
himself on the brown needles, the smoke of his pipe drifted past her in a blue whiff. Mr. Martin put a
chair for her.

"I love these pine trees," she said. "They're always whispering."

"It isn't polite to whisper."

She smiled at him. He does say the quaintest things.

"Nature never is polite. On an afternoon like this the whole world seems to yawn in your face."

"These trees smell like cough drops." This was George.

An artist's mind is always on the beautiful, Phyllis thought. She pulled her skirt down a little, and tried to
decide what was the most beautiful thing visible, so she could call his attention to it. She wished she
hadn't said that about yawning, she felt one, coming on. The hot lunch had made her frightfully drowsy.
Across the bay thunderheads were massing and rolling up, deep golden purple. "I wish I could paint," she
said. "See those wonderful — " But she began the sentence too late; the yawn overtook her in the middle
of it.

"Wonderful what?" asked George, looking up. She was struggling with the desire to gape; she trembled
with the violence of her effort. George stared.

"Are you ill?"

"Wonderful clouds," she finished savagely. George watched her, adding one more tally to his private
conviction that women are mostly mad.

"If you poured heavy cream into a glass of grape juice," he said, "it would look just like that. Coiling
round and clotting."

Sickening idea, Phyllis thought.

"I know exactly what's going to happen, just about the time I have to drive over — "

He was going to say it, she felt it coming. He was going to say depot instead of station. George always
said depot when they were in the country, and she couldn't bear it. It was coming, it was coming;
everything was predestined; all her life she had known this scene was on the way, sitting under the hot
croup-kettle smell of the pine trees, blue thunder piling up on the skyline, poor adorable George
mumbling away, and Mr. Martin watching them with his air of faint surprise. It was like the beginning of
some terrible poem. Everything in life was a symbol of everything else. The slices of lemon lying at the
bottom of the iced-tea jug, on a soft cloud of undissolved sugar, even they were a symbol of something. .
..

"George!" she interrupted desperately. "I had the most terrible premonition. I felt that you were going to
say depot."

"Why, yes, I was going to say, just about the time I'm ready to drive over — "

For his own sake, for her sake, for Mr. Martin's sake, George must be prevented. If he used that word,
she would know that all this was foreordained, beyond help and hope. With a quick movement she
pushed her glass of tea off the table; it cascaded onto George's ankle. He paused in surprise.

"I'm so sorry. How careless of me, your nice white socks, look out, that little piece of ice is going down
inside your shoe."

She felt that the guest's eyes were upon her. He must have seen her do it. "Is that why they call it a
tumbler?" he said.

"Never mind," said George cheerfully. "It feels fine. I wish it was down my neck."

For a moment transparent Time swung in a warm, dull, uncertain equilibrium. Phyllis could see Lizzie jolt
heavily down the kitchen steps and bend over the garbage can. The grinding clang of the lid came like a
threatening clap of cymbals. How glorious it would be if she and Lizzie, each with a garbage can and lid,
could suddenly break into a ritual dance on the lawn, posturing under the maddening sunlight, clashing
away their fury in a supreme dervish protest. How surprised George and Mr. Martin would be. She and
Lizzie making frantic and mocking gestures, sweating the comedy out of their veins, breaking through the
dull mask of polite behaviour into the great rhythms and furies of life. No longer to be tired out by little
things, but to be exhausted and used by some great ecstasy. She was watching every movement life
made, and thinking, as it was finished, There, that's over, it never can happen again. But it all would
happen again, and how weary she was of keeping to herself her heavy burden of secret desires and
pangs. Why couldn't she tell George? But if you tried to tell George things, he went far, far away —
because, probably, he too had so much that he yearned to tell. You can't really be intimate with people
who know you so well. Yet she had never been so fond of him. Here, in this garden, they seemed for an
instant secure from the terror of the world. Behind these walls, these burning roses, disorderly forces
could not reach them.

Mr. Martin was a comforting sort of guest, he did not talk but just looked happy and was spooning up
the sugar from the bottom of his glass. Drink life to the bottom of the vessel, you always find some sugar
there, all the more palatable for the lemony taste.

A clear compulsory ringing trilled keenly across the lawn. They listened, unwilling to move.
Then there was the squeak of the screen being lifted in the pantry window. Lizzie put out her head and
called. Phyllis found it impossible to stir.

"George, you go. Then you can put on some dry socks."

"Nonsense," he said, getting up. "I'll be lots wetter than that if the storm breaks while I'm driving to the
depot."
                                                      VI

Phyllis could feel the whole flat of visible world gently tilting. Equilibrium, if there had been any, was gone:
they had begun to slide. George, receding across the level grass, seemed to descend a downward slope.
Martin was lying at ease on the ground beside her, with one knee bent and the other leg cocked across it.
Perhaps that's why he's so fond of lying on the ground. It's easier to keep from sliding. He seemed to
have forgotten she was there and was humming to himself. She felt he had the advantage that silent
people always have over the talkative. But if she could get him into conversation, she could make him
realize that she was more thoughtful than she seemed.

"I'm glad you didn't finish your beans," she began.

He did not seem surprised. "I'm glad you're glad," he said presently.

"I don't like finishing things either."

To this he said nothing at all, and she realized that her carefully drilled waggishness, which she kept for
callers, would descend upon her in a minute. She struggled against it. She had a forlorn desire to feel real
for a few moments, to say things she believed. But of its own accord an archly playful remark popped
out.

"Now you mustn't let us bore you, you must feel free to do whatever you want. I think it's dreadful to
force guests to be amused."

"I feel awfully free. Don't you?"

This was so unexpected that her mind went quite blank. There seemed no possible reply that was worth
making.

"I should like to lie in bed and laugh," he said calmly.

Phyllis tried to think of something to laugh about. It suddenly struck her that there are days when one
does not laugh at all. Evidently this was one of them. The world had swinked, and looped its wild orbit
for uncountable ages, all to produce this latest moment of lucid afternoon: and yet what cause was there
for mirth? But she felt that if she could produce a clear chime of amusement it would be a mannerly and
attractive thing to do. She opened her mouth for it, but only managed a sort of satiric cackle.

"You mustn't try to laugh," he said. "It's bad for you."

She wondered whether she ought to pretend offence. Of course I'm not really offended: there's
something so gently impersonal about his rudenesses. In this dreadful vortex of life that seems to spin us
round and round, how amazing to find someone so completely nonchalant, so . . . so untouched by
anxiety . . . as though his mind had never been bruised. (When she found the right word she always liked
to think of it as underlined.)

She had often wondered, hopefully, if she would ever be tempted beyond her strength. Absurd: this was
the sort of thing that simply didn't happen to . . . to nice people. But there was a warm currency in her
blood, radiant and quivering. She ought to go indoors and lie down . . . lie on her bed and laugh . . . but
feeling her knees tremble she remembered that the underskirt was very sheer, and in that violent sunlight,
walking across the lawn, he would see an ungraceful bifid silhouette . . . you can't really shock women,
but you have to be so careful not to startle men . . . without seeming to pay special attention he was
evidently terribly observant. . . . What was it George had said once? that she was so beautiful his eye
always enjoyed imagining the lines of her . . . her. . . . No, body is a horrid word . . . her figure . . . under
her thin dress. George was so carnal. And worse than that, apologetic for it. Mr. Martin isn't carnal . . .
and if he were, he wouldn't deprecate it.

"All the things I like are bad for me."

She had said this almost unconsciously, for her mind had gone a long way ahead. She was thinking that if
George drove recklessly through a thunderstorm, and the car skidded, and he . . . died . . . passed away
. . . on the way to the hospital at Dark Harbour (because the most appalling things do happen sometimes:
why, once a flake of burning tobacco blew from George's pipe into his eye, as he was turning a corner,
and the car almost went into the ditch) . . . what on earth would she do? Wire to New York for
mourning, and would it be proper to keep Mr. Martin in the house after the funeral? The little churchyard
on the dunes would be such a picturesque place to bury a husband: sandy soil, too (it seems so much
cleaner, somehow) and harebells among the stones. What was that kind of lettering George was always
talking about? Yes, Caslon: he would like that.

GEORGE GRANVILLE
IN THE 39TH YEAR OF HIS AGE

Certainly it would never do to have him there after the interment (Mr. Martin, that is). It would have to be
at two o'clock so he could get the 3:18 train. Two o'clock makes it rather early, it would interrupt
George's nap after lunch. . . .

But Mr. Martin was sitting up looking at her with interest.

"Really?" he was asking. "You feel that way too?" She had forgotten what she had said; and she couldn't
very well say "What way?" She must have said something rather good, because he was gazing at her
with lively expectancy. His inquisitive eyes, eager brown face, were utterly charming. How fascinating
human beings are, she thought: their nice fabricky clothes, their queerly carved faces. She wanted to
stretch beside him on the shiny needles, let the sun bake and cook away this horrible curdling sickness
that shook inside her; purify all her idiocy in the warm clear pleasure of exchanging ideas. Why even
animals can communicate their sensations more cordially than people. Must this fardel of identity always
be borne alone?

"Yes," she said, with her perfected smile. She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder, to know if he was
actual. When the whole fire and anger of a woman's life reaches out for some imagined fulfillment, she
finds no luxury of phrase to say her pang. She is a movement of nature, a wind that stirs the grass, a moth
blundering in the rain. I shall tell him in a minute, I shall tell him, God help me not to tell him. Is this being
tempted beyond my strength? But this isn't temptation, this is just Truth. This was God Himself. Weren't
we told to love God? Perhaps George would say that biology was just making fun of her. You're not
supposed to love more than one person at a time — not in the same way, at least. . . .

"Even Picnics?"

"Don't speak of the Picnic," she said. "I hate to think of it. Damn the Picnic."

He looked startled.

"George made up a limerick once," she said. "It began like this: I never believed in monogamy, My
husband has just made a dog o' me. But he couldn't find another rhyme."

"What's monogamy?"
"Something terrible," she said, laughing. This was the real laughter she had hoped for. She seemed lifted,
purged, held in a twinkling skein of mirth. Laughter, like flame, purifies. Certainly he was adorable, but
she couldn't quite make him out. Why should he, who evidently enjoyed horrifying others, be so suddenly
aghast himself? Plainly he was making fun of her: but she could see he was the kind of person who would
not try, clumsily, to say the things that ought never to be said. For every woman knows all these things
anyway, and prefers to say them herself.

There was a clatter on the veranda, three serial slams of the screen door, quick crunching of gravel, the
children. How she loved them, the gay flutter of their short dresses, the brown slender legs gradually
paling toward their soft fat little hams. They came running across the lawn, knees lifting and shining in the
brilliant light. They surrounded her in a hot laughing group, breathlessly explaining some plan. Daddy was
going to take them swimming, if there was a storm they could go into the bath house, it wouldn't matter
anyway if they had their bathing suits on, Daddy would play Moby Dick the White Whale. The words
came tumbling out of them, they seemed packed with words, bursting with a vision of green warm water
scalloped with foam, Daddy the White Whale snorting in the surf, the prickling terror of storm darkening
the sky. What vitality, what career of the spirit of life!

"Children, children, don't forget your manners. Make a nice curtsey to Mr. Martin."

At once they became well-regulated little dolls. What a picture, she thought: The Curtsey . . . the three
children bobbing, their mother in the background, supervising as it were: seeing that Life kept within
bounds, did no violence to the harmony of the composition. Because (heavens!) it was bad enough for
her to feel as she did: she couldn't endure the thought of Janet and Sylvia and Rose growing up to such
— such disorders. If they were painted like that, curtseying, of course the pose would be difficult to hold.
But all poses are difficult to hold.

"I don't know that I like the idea of your bathing with a storm coming on," she said. That was George,
putting wild schemes in their heads. If she forbade it now, there would be tears —

"It's what we're all doing, all the time," said George. He had come quietly across the grass while she was
showing the children off to Martin.

This was so surprisingly subtle, for George, she scanned him in amazement. He looked like An Anchor to
Windward, A Stitch in Time, Something Put By for a Rainy Day. No one ever looked less like a Leap in
the Dark. In short, he looked like a Husband: large, strong, reliable, long-suffering, and uninteresting. The
best way to look, probably (she thought), for the interesting people have such a painful time.

"It was a telegram from Miss Clyde," he said. "She's coming this afternoon. Same train as the Brooks."

"This afternoon! I thought it was tomorrow."

There was something guilty about George's shrug. He must have told her to come today.

"Well, then, George. You'll have to clean up your den right away. And the Brooks are going into the
children's room, that bed has got to be fixed. It's all right for Janet, but that spring'll have to be fixed
before Ben and Ruth sleep there.

The children's faces were troubled.

"It's all right, little toads," said George. "You go and get your swim anyhow. Mr. Martin can go with you
and be the White Whale. I'll come down as soon as I've fixed the beds."

"I haven't any suit," said Martin.
"All the more like the White Whale," said George. "But you can take mine, it's in the bath house."

The children, gaily chattering, led Martin off. Phyllis watched them along the hot pebbly path. Beyond the
sundial it curved through shrubbery to the green wicket gate. Here, up a grassy gully, came the sharp
breath of the sea. In a sort of daze her eyes went with them. That little valley, between the tall dunes, was
like a channel through which, if the level garden tilted ever so little, all life would sluice out. When the gate
opened it would be like pulling the plug in a bathtub. Everything would begin to flow. With a horrid
gurgling sound, probably.

George was beneficently silent. Dreamily she found herself following Martin and the children. If she got as
far as that tuft of grass without George speaking, she would not need to answer. She was almost there.
She was there. She put her foot squarely on it. Then to her surprise she turned and waited. George was
filling his pipe. His silence could only mean one thing: he was frightened about something. She felt her
advantage come swimming back into her, a thrilling flutter of strength. Yet she was angry at him for not
trying to hold and subdue her.

"Well, why don't you say something?"

He blazed with delighted peevishness.

"At least tell me which bed is which?" he shouted.

"Both of them," she said.

Now the others were hidden behind the shrubbery. In a minute they'd be through the gate. She drifted
swiftly after. There was the place on the gravel where she had found him lying. The pebbles were still
scuffed about. But even if the gardener raked the path a thousand times she would never forget that exact
spot. They were at the gate. The children were showing him how fine it is for swinging on. All was clear
in her mind. She would tell the girls to run ahead, and as they twinkled down the slope she would turn to
Martin. Her eyes would tell him everything. . . . No, not everything; but enough to begin with.

Then, I love you, she would say. Softly. She whispered it to herself to be sure she had the right
intonation. How long was it since she had said that as it should be said, with amazement and terror? Ten
years? Why, a woman ought to be able to say it like that — well, every other year anyhow.

"Don't swing on that gate more than one at a time," she called. "You'll break the hinges." And added, to
justify herself in Martin's ears, "Remember, chickens, it's not our gate."

They turned, surprised to see her following.

"Children," she began, "you run ahead, I want — "

The alert, attentive faces of the little girls were too much for her. They gaped over the palings. They knew
(she felt sure) that something queer was happening. They always know, as calmly detached as nurses in a
hospital who smile faintly at what the patients say under ether.

She hesitated, looking down at her ankles. How trim and orderly they were; when she put on those white
silk stockings this morning she had had no idea of all this happening.

She heard the gate clash to, but still paused, her face averted. She wanted her eyes to reach his slowly.
For after that it would be too late to plan things. There was a lonely marching in her blood. Then,
trembling, she looked.

He wasn't there. He too had run on with the children. All four, far down the hill, romping to the beach
together.
                                                     VII

George was fixing the beds, and making an extra-special crashing and clanging about it for Phyllis's
benefit, so she would realize how irritating a job it was. I wonder (he was thinking) if any other man ever
had to move furniture about so much? Phyllis has a passion for shifting beds. These springs don't fit the
frames. The result is that every time any one turns over there's a loud bang, the corner of the spring
comes down clank on the iron side-bar. I fixed it — not perfectly, but well enough — with a pad of
newspaper and a length of clothesline, when we moved in. Good enough for the children. But of course
for Ben and Ruth. . . .

These can't be the right springs for these beds. It stands to reason no manufacturer would be fool enough
to send out a bed that couldn't possibly be put together. There must be some trick of arrangement.
Human reason can figure out anything, if concentrated on the problem. Now, let's see. This goes here,
and this here. Think of having to fiddle over these picayune trifles when the whole of life and destiny is
thrilling in the balance. He was lying under the bed now, among curly grey rolls of dust, holding up the
spring with one hand while the other reached for the hammer.

Phyllis came in, to empty some of the bureau drawers for Ben and Ruth. She was taking away neat
armfuls of the children's crisp clean garments. The whole room was full of their innocent little affairs.
There, in the corner, was the collapsible doll house he had made last Christmas, and which had to go
everywhere with them. Sitting against the door of the doll house was a tiny china puppet with a face of
perpetual simper and that attitude of pelvic dislocation peculiar to small china dolls. Around the house
was a careful pattern of shells, diligently brought from the beach. Why did all this make his heart ache?
He remembered one evening when he had been working late, he passed gently by the children's door
about midnight and heard a quiet little cough. Janet was awake. That small sound had suddenly,
appallingly, reminded him that these poor creatures too were human. She must be lying there, thinking.
What does a child think, alone at night? He went in, in the darkness, put his arms round the surprised
child, and whispered encouragements to her. Jay, he said, Daddy's own smallest duckling frog, Daddy
loves you, don't ever forget Daddy loves you. The little figure sat up in bed, threw her arms round his
neck and gripped him wildly in furious affection. "I won't forget, Daddy," cried her soft voice in the warm
dark room. Though she was only eight years old her accent was strangely mature: the eternal voice of
woman calling man back from agonies and follies to her savage and pitying breast.

Mother love? Pooh (he thought, in a glow of bitterness) , what was mother love! A form of selfishness,
most of the time. Of course they love their children, having borne them, suffered for them. Children are
their biological passport, their excuse for not having minds. And if they're girls, how mothers hurry to drill
and denature those bright dreaming wits. They love them chiefly because they make so pretty a vignette
in the margin of their own self-portrait — like a remarque in an engraving. But for fathers to love their
children — the poor accidental urchins that come between them and the work they love — that really
means something!

He gave the bed frame several resounding bangs with the hammer: quite uselessly, merely to express his
sense of irritation at seeing Phyllis's pretty ankles and the hem of her green dress moving so purposefully
about the room. Then, looking out angrily from under the bed, he saw her picking up the shells. Instead
of bending over from the hips, as a man would, she was crouching on her heels, deliciously folded down
upon her haunches. This annoyed him. And how heartless to clear away the shells that had been
laboriously arranged in a border round the doll house.

"Why don't you leave them there?" he shouted. Then he realized how impossible it would be to explain
his feeling about the shells. They represented innocence, poetry, the hopeful imaginings of childhood.
Phyllis scooped them up relentlessly. "Don't be a fool," she said. "You wanted these people here for the
Picnic, didn't you? All right, we have to make the room decent."

He felt that, as usual, he had picked up the argument by the wrong end. Arguments are like cats: if you
take them up by the tail they twist and scratch you.

"And another thing," she added. "You simply must mend that broken railing on the sleeping porch. If the
children are going to be out there it isn't safe."

"I can't fix both these beds," he growled. "There's a bolt missing. Tell me which one Ben will sleep in, I'll
fix that. Ruth's won't matter, she's a skinny little thing, doesn't weigh much more than Janet."

I wouldn't mind so much fixing Ruth's bed, he was thinking; there'd be a kind of vague satisfaction in that.
I rather like to think of her lying there, she's rather attractive even if she is such a numbskull. But Ben, that
solid meaty citizen . . . he probably snores . . . I'll tell Ben to take this one; this is the one most likely to
come down.

"How do I know which will take which?" she said. "They'll arrange that to suit themselves, no matter
what we say."

He had carefully lashed the spring to the frame with a piece of rope six weeks before. But it had worked
loose and now must be done all over again. The deuce of a job: the spring was precariously balanced at
one end only; he was holding the loose end with one hand, trying to rewind the cord with the other. The
thought of doing all this for Ben was too silly. No, let Ruth have this one and he would try to make a
good job of it. Perspiration rolled from him. He supported the spring with his left elbow, so that he could
take the end of the cord with his left hand while tightening it with his right. A fuzz of dust was sticking to
his moist cheek. This was too insanely comic: grunting under a bed on a hot electrical afternoon. He
could see Phyl's feet standing motionless by the window. How lovely she was, how he wanted her,
wanted to slough away all these senseless tensions and stupidities. . . . She was always right because she
merely acted on instinct; he, usually wrong, because he tried to think things out and act reasonably . . . if
she knew how heroic he really was, would she understand? He must get her to understand before it was
too late. For this — this crisis that was hanging over them, was his deliberately desired trial of strength.
And now, if they weren't careful, they would fritter away all their stamina in preliminary scuffle and
nonsense; and when the moment came . . . soon, appallingly soon . . . there would be no vitality left to
meet it.

He was terrified. He had planned all this, grimly; now things were moving too fast for him. A long soft
murmur of thunder jarred across the sky. Would the storm pass over without breaking? No, by God, it
must break, if they were ever to find peace. He must send up a kite, like old Ben Franklin (that first of
modern advertising men) to bring down a sample of lightning. He must find out whether lightning was the
kind of thing you can live with. He must tell her why he was terrified. He must tell her quickly. These
were the last moments they would have together before . . . already the colour of the light had changed.
Here, on the side of the house away from the water, there was a darkening sparkle in the air.

Her feet were ominously still. She must be thinking, and this always worried him. Suppose she too
became aware of this secret insolubility of life? It was only her divine certainty about little things that kept
him going. What business have biological units thinking about things? Let them obey their laws and not
question.

Shifting the weight of the spring to his shoulder he turned over and put his head out from under the foot of
the bed.

"Phyl," he said, "why don't you go and lie down a bit, have a rest before the folks get here."
She looked down at him. Even in the warm listless dream that seemed to have mastered her, she was
touched by the foolish appeal in his red, dust-streaked face. Where the light caught the turn of his jaw
shone a coppery stubble.

"You need a shave," she said; and then regretted her insistent tidying instinct. She was holding three large
shabby dolls, unconsciously pressing them "against her like an armful of real babies. One flopped forward
over her arm, uttering an absurd bleating squawk. Maaa-maa!

"The children," she exclaimed breathlessly. "The storm's coming. Hurry up with those beds; get the
children back from the beach."

"They're all right," he said sulkily. "Mr. Martin'll take care of 'em."

His large flushed face, mouth open, gazed up from the floor. He looked pitiably silly, like a frightened
dog. He was thinking, all I want to tell her is that I love her; no matter what happens I love her. But how
can I say it? If she weren't my wife I suppose it would be so much easier. Why do we always show our
worst side to the people we love?

She was thinking: The absurd idiot, writhing about under that bed like a roach, telling me to go and lie
down when there are a hundred things to be done, beds to be made, towels and linen got out, silver
counted, instructions to Lizzie. . . . Certainly she had tried to warn him. . . .

"Damn Mr. Martin!" she cried. "Don't trust him. You fool, you fool. Can't you see he's crazy? We're all
crazy. Stop sprawling there like a mud turtle, do something."

"Listen, Phyl," he said heavily. "I want to tell you something. Now, listen, you've got to help me."

With a pang of alarm he knew that now it was too late to go back. He had begun to speak. Now he must
try to explain the pillar of smoke and fire that had moved so long before the lonely track of his mind.
Greatly as he feared her rigid spirit, he must divide the weight of this heavy fragile burden, like a crystal
globe that might contain either ecstasy or horror. He could not know which until it lay broken about him
in shining scraps and curves. But oh, why was she so difficult to tell things to?

"Don't laugh," he mumbled. "It's terribly — "

He wriggled forward earnestly. The other end of the metal spring slid from its joist, the head and foot of
the bed toppled inward. With a clanking brassy crash the whole thing collapsed about him.

He lay there, covered with bed, in a furious silence which was merely the final expression of his disgust.
For an instant, in the stillness following that ridiculous clamour, she thought he was hurt. She bent down,
dropping the dolls, and one of these again shrilled its whining protest. His angry face reassured her, and
she burst into a peal of laughter.

He crawled out from under the wreck. He was thinking savagely, yet with relief also, how close he had
been to telling her. But that was his fate. Even noble tragedy, if it came near him, would be marred by
titters. He didn't blame her for laughing. Even in an agony he could never be more than grotesque.

"I was just thinking," she said, "how awful if the bed did that when Ben's in it."

"Don't worry. It probably will."

Sultry blue air pressed close about the house, air heavy with uncertain energies. He knew now how frail
are carpentered walls and doors, how brittle a box to guard and fortify weak things he held dear. A poor
cardboard doll house, and his own schemes just a ring of shells about it. Here, in a home not even his
own, among alien furnitures, he must meet the sorceries of life, treacheries both without and within.
Strong walls, strong walls, defend this rebel heart! he whispered to himselfstartled and shamed to find
himself so poetical. Strange, he thought (hastily reëdifying the bed), that people spend such anguish on
decisions that don't really matter. But in this house he was at a disadvantage. He had no memories in it.
For Phyllis it had old associations and meanings. It went back into her childhood, into that strange time
when he had never known her; when she must have been so cunningly caught unawares and machined
into rigidity. So even the house was against him. In that charged air, one spark surely would sheet all
heaven with flame. It would be queer to split open the world's old shingled roofs and rusty-screened
windows, scatter the million people with little pig-eyes of suspicion, explode love and merriment over the
land. God help us, he thought, people can't even sin without finding dusty little moral justifications for it.
This is what civilization has brought us to! — But what a way for a man to be thinking, with a half-written
booklet on Summer Tranquillity lying on his desk.

He stepped onto the sleeping porch, where two cots had been put for Janet and Sylvia, to look at the
broken railing. Projecting above the veranda, it overlooked the garden and the pale sickle of beach,
distinct in glassy light. He could see Martin and the children, tiny figures frolicking on the sand. The sky
was piled steeply with swollen bales of storm, scrolls of gentian-coloured vapour. But it looked now as
though the gust would pass overhead. Phyllis was busy at the linen closet by the corner of the passage,
getting out clean towels and napkins. He envied her the sedative trifles that keep wives sane. And after
all, perhaps the well-drilled discipline of human beings would get them past this eddy. People — and
especially guests — know so well what can be done and what can't. They know how to "behave." The
world, brave prudent old world, is so sagely adjusted to avert or ignore any casual expression of what
men really feel: terror and mockery, pity and desire. Oh, surely, by careful management, they could all
shuffle through a couple of days without committing themselves and then safely relapse into the customary
drugged routine. Ben and Ruth, accomplished students of petty demeanour, would be a great help. Even
Joyce, poor bewitched rebel with frightened eyes, even Joyce must have some powers of concealment.
But he would not think of Joyce for a little while.

"I think maybe the storm'll blow over," he called. He felt he must speak to Phyllis again, to calm his own
nervousness.

There was no answer. Going to the end of the passage he saw her standing at the big bay window in the
spare room. She was looking down toward the beach, one hand nervously plucking at a strip of
wallpaper that had come loose along the frame of the window. He crossed the room quietly and kissed
the back of her neck, with a vague idea that this would help to keep her from thinking. It was so
enormously important that she should be calm and humorous just now.

He was prepared for silent indifference, or even an outburst of anger; but not for what happened. She
turned silently and flung her arms madly about his neck. "Love me, love me, love me," she cried. "Love
me, before it's too late."

He was horrified. "There, there," he said, embarrassed. "Go and rest a while, little frog."
                                                      VIII

The beach was a different world. Under the plum-glossed wall of storm the bay was level, dusky, and
still, crumbling in low parallels of surf. The waves collapsed in short flat crashes. The children flashed in
the warm dull water: they wore three tight little green bathing suits: their legs so tanned it seemed as
though long brown stockings were snugly drawn above their polished knees. They tumbled with the soft
clumsy grace of young animals and were happy without knowing it. Janet could swim; Sylvia still used
water-wings to buoy her up; Rose preferred not to go beyond knee-depth and squatted in the curl of the
small breakers. When the backwash scoured the sand from under her insteps, leaving a hard mound
beneath her tickling heels, she squeaked with ecstatic fright. "The ocean's pulling me!" she cried, and
squattered to safety. Sylvia, paddling splashily a little farther out, with a white rubber cap and the bulbous
wings behind her shoulders, was like a lame butterfly that had dropped from the dunes above. She put a
foot down and couldn't touch bottom. This alarmed her and she hastily flapped herself shoreward. A
wave broke on her nape, shot her sprawling into the creamy shallows. The wings spilled off, she rolled
sideways and under with legs flying, her nose rubbed along soft ridges of sand. Her face, emerging, was a
comic medallion of anxious surprise. Another spread of lacy green water slid round her chin. She was
relieved to find herself laughing.

"A wave went right over me and I didn't mind," she exclaimed. "I'm a little laughing girl, and laughing girls
are different."

It was all different. In this width of sky and sea and sand nothing was reproached. Nounou was off for
the afternoon and could not forbid them to play with the stranger. Farther along the bay were other
cottages, other children; but here they were alone. "Do you see those houses?" said four-year-old Rose
to Martin, pointing to the bungalows that stood on a bluff, sharp upon naked air. "People live there, with
beds and food."

Yet they did not even know they were alone. Merely they existed, they were. They were part of the
ocean, which does not think but only fulfils its laws. Tides curve and bubble in, earth receives them, earth
lets them ebb. Soft shells pulverize, hard shells polish, sand-hills slither, seaweeds dry and blacken: the
bay takes the sea in its great arms and is content: and inland the farmyard dogs, those spotted moralists,
are scandalized by the moon. The moon — chaste herself, bright persuasion of unchastity in others. For
life is all one piece, of endless pattern. No stitch in the vast fabric can be unravelled without risking the
whole tapestry. It is the garment woven without seams.

Here was beauty; and they, not knowing it, were part of it unawares. Here was no thinking, merely the
great rhythm of ordered accident, gulls' wings white against thunder, the electric circuits of law broken by
the clear crystal of fancy. And the sea, the silly sea, meaningless, prolific, greatest of lovers, brawling over
the cold pumice reefs of dead volcanoes, groping tenderly up slants of thirsty sand. The sea that breeds
life and the land that breeds thought, destined lovers and enemies, made to meet and destroy, to mingle
and deny, marking earth with strangeness wherever they embrace. The sea, the bitter sea, that makes
man suspect he is homeless and has no roof but dreams.

Janet, who was big enough to go beyond the low surf and grapple the White Whale in his own element,
liked Mr. Martin because he did not talk much and understood the game at once. When she harpooned
him he rolled and thrashed in foam, churning with his flukes as a wounded whale should; and came
floating in so they could haul him to land and cut him up for blubber. This, she explained, is the flensing
stage, marking out a flat area of moist sand. Then they burned the blubber in a great bonfire, a beacon
that glared tawnily in the night, to guide the relief ship to their perilous coast. Martin found it ticklish to be
flensed, so they lay and made tunnels. The tide was going, the flat belt of wet beach was like a mirror,
reflecting the rich sword-blade colour of the West.

But Martin was a little puzzled.

"What did you say your names are?" he asked again.

"Janet and Sylvia and Rose," they said, delighted at his stupidity. For it is always thrilling to tell people
your name: it proves that you too belong to this important world.

Still, this didn't account for the other, the fourth one. He had seen her watching them from the beach, and
then she had been playing with them in the tumbling water. He had thought the children just a little bit rude
not to greet her when she joined them. She was not as brown as they, so perhaps she was a stranger
who had newly arrived. But now, when that heavy thunder rolled like wagon wheels across a dark bridge
of clouds, and the other three ran off to the bath house to dress, she was sitting there beside him.

She was older, but he knew her now. Her face was wet; but of course, for she had been wriggling in the
surf like a mermaid. He felt a trifle angry with her: she had got ahead of him, then. He was opening his
mouth to speak when she asked him exactly the same thing:

"How did you get here?"

He must be careful: if he told her too much she might give him away. She never could keep a secret.

"I've always been here," he said. "It isn't fair for you to tag along. Go home."

Then he realized it was no use to talk to her like that. Why, she seemed older than he: she had even
begun to get soft and bulgy, like ladies. But she looked so frightened, he took her hand.

"We can't both do it," he said. "They'll find out. Bunny, you're not playing fair."

"I am, I am!" she cried. "I'm not playing at all. You go away. You'll be sorry."

It was awful to see her look so anxious.

"You used to be a laughing girl," he said, "and laughing girls are different. What's happened to you
anyway?"

She gazed at him strangely, with so much love in her face he felt she must be ill.

"This is no place for you," he said firmly. "Here among strangers. You'll be lonely. I can't look after you."

"They aren't strangers. Oh, please go back before you find out."

This was all senseless and annoying; yet he was sorry for her too. I know what's the matter with her, he
thought. He accused her of it.

"No, no!" she said piteously. "No, Martin. Not that. I nearly did, but not really."

"I dare say it wasn't your fault," he said; and then remembering a useful phrase, "You'll have to excuse me
now." He saw Mr. Granville approaching down the sandy ravine. "Here's one of them coming."

"Tell me," she said quickly. "Do you like them?"

"Why, yes, they're nice. They're a bit queer. They seem to worry about things.They like me," he added
proudly.
He could see Mr. Granville waving to them to take shelter in the cabin. The bay was already scarred with
the onset of the squall.

"Hurry!" Martin said. "Come on, we'll wait in the bath house until the storm's over." They ran together,
stumbling up the heavy sand, she lightly, not dragging behind as she usually did. When he reached the
door, pulling it open against the first volley of the rain, it was not her hand that he held, but a cold smooth
shell.
                                                        IX

One drawback about Pullmans (Ruth was thinking) is that the separate chairs make it difficult to talk.
And she was getting restless: if she didn't say something pretty soon she would begin to feel uncertain of
herself. The long melancholy howl of the engine, the gritty boxed-up air (still smelling of the vaults under
the Grand Central Station), the hot plushy feel of the cushion prickling under her knees, the roll and swing
of the car, the dark ridges of hills, everything was depressing and tedious. Ben was still absorbed in the
morning paper — already stale, she thought, for the afternoon sheets were out by now. She had
skimmed the magazines, a little irritated by the pictures of interiors of wealthy country houses. She wished
that such articles would also include photographs of the number of servants necessary to keep things so
perfect. Of course it was easy enough for people like that to have a Home in Good Taste: they just call in
a decorator and he fixes everything. But you yourself: how are you going to know what is really Good
Taste? Styles change so. As for the fiction, it sounded as though it was written by people with adenoids.
You could hear the author biting his nails and snuffling. She had cleaned out her vanity box, thrown away
some old clippings and a dusty peppermint and stubs of theatre tickets. And still Ben was lurking behind
a screen of print. Certainly he was the most stay-put of men: place him anywhere and there he would
remain until it was time for the next thing to happen.

She began filing briskly at her nails. Presently the newspaper rustled uneasily. She leaned forward and
rasped sharply, her soft hand moving as capably as a violinist's. The little sickening buzz continued, and
Ben folded the paper lengthwise and looked round it like a man at a half-open door. His brown eyes
were large and clear behind tortoise-shell glasses. His eyebrows were delicately poised, ready to rise,
like guests preparing to get up from their chairs. In his waistcoat pocket were two fountain pens, one
black and one with silver filigree on it. He looked faintly annoyed. Whatever he looked, he always
looked it faintly: dimly, sluggishly, somewhat. He was a little bit stout, a little bit bald, a little bit tired, a
little bit prosperous. Littlebit had been his nickname when she fell in love with him and thought him such
a passionate fellow. She used to like the name, but had put it out of her mind when she found it too true.
Everything about him was rather, except only his eyes. They were quite. In them, sometimes, you saw a
far-off defiance. Something that had always retreated, slipped behind corners, stood warily at half-open
doors, but by caution and prudence, not by timidity. Something that went while the going was good.

"Ben," she said. "Did you see that girl sitting at the next table in the diner? The one in the black hat. She
came in just before we left."

He thought a moment. "No," he said. "I was looking at the bill."

"She went through here a while ago. She's in the day coaches, I guess, because this is the last of the
Pullmans."

No, thought Ben, this isn't the last of the Pullmans, there's another one ahead of it. I noticed it specially
when we got on: it's called Godiva and reminded me to ask Ruth if she'd brought her bathing suit. — But
he refrained from correcting her, waiting patiently to hear what was coming.

"Of course, I'm not sure, it's so long since I've seen her, ages and ages, but I think it was Joyce Clyde."

Ben made a polite murmur of interested surprise, allowing his eyebrows to stretch themselves a little and
pursing his lips gently to show attention. But the name meant nothing to him.

"I shouldn't wonder if she's on her way to the Island too. You remember, she was there one summer
when we were all children. I wouldn't have known her, but 1 saw her picture in a magazine not long ago.
She's some kind of artist, I think. She always was a queer kid."
Ben's recollection of old days on the Island was mostly limited to a strip of yellow shore. He remembered
cat-boats and knife-edged grasses, a dock with barnacled piles, learning to make a half-hitch in wet
ropes, and the freckled, gap-toothed faces of some other small boys. He remembered splintery plank
walks among masses of poison ivy, the puckered white feet of a man who had been drowned, the sour
stink of his aquarium of hermit crabs, dead because he forgot to change their water. He remembered an
older boy who taught the small fry obscene rhymes. The cheerful disgusting hazards of being young were
now safely over, thank goodness. The orderly exacting routine of business was enough to keep a man
amused. Twenty-one years is a long time: yet turning the focus of memory a little more sharply he caught
an unexpected glimpse of a friendly fat waitress at the old wooden hotel who used to bring him bowls of
clam chowder; and some of the grown-ups were still visible. But the small girls seemed to have
evaporated, fogged out. Even Ruth herself. He could only recall a distant shrilling of hide-and-seek
played after dusk among the sand-hills, the running flutter of pink cotton dresses. Why don't little girls
wear pink nowadays, he wondered.

"Did she wear a pink dress?"

"Gracious, I don't know. She had green eyes and was awfully shy. If that was her, she's turned out more
attractive than I would have thought. Funny, she hasn't bobbed her hair: I thought all artists were
supposed to do that."

Ben wasn't greatly interested. His private conviction was that the party would be a bore anyhow: but he
couldn't very well return to the newspaper while Ruth was talking. He took off his glasses and polished
them.

"What does her husband do?"

"Her husband? She hasn't got one. I suppose she's wedded to her art. I don't think she's the type that's
attractive to men."

Ruth regretted this when she had said it, because obviously a little deduction on Ben's part would have
led him to her real thread of thought. But he showed no sign of animation, patted her knee in a soothing,
proprietory way, and settled his coat round him like a dog coiling for another nap.

"We'll soon be there," he said.

"I hope so. I'd forgotten it was such a long ride. It'll be strange to see the Island again. What a queer
thing, George getting hold of the old Richmond place. It's been empty a long time, the family never went
back to it after the little girl (what was her name?) died."

As though plunging into a tunnel the train drummed into a squall. Grey slants of rain thrashed the
windows, there were heavy explosions of sound. Ruth was usually afraid of storms, but this one seemed
to make the long green car comfortable. The smooth hum of the train softened the jagged edges of
thunder. She would have liked a woman there to talk to about Joyce. She had been cheerful in the
certainty that her own hat was the smartest on the train until Joyce (for certainly it was she) entered the
dining car. That curly black felt, with what an air she carried it. There was something gipsyish about her:
something finely unconscious in her way of enjoying her lunch while every other woman was watching
her. Women run in a pack and hasten to ally themselves against any other who seems to have secret
funds of certainty. Those who live from hand to mouth are always indignant at a private income. Ruth
knew Joyce at once as one of the lonely kind. While she had been sitting there, apparently idle and half
asleep, she had turned her chair to command the aisle and was waiting intently to see her come back
through their car.

The delicious resentment that some women at once rouse in others! By deep specialized instinct every
woman in the car looked up as the girl went by. Sitting there for several hours they had tactitly constituted
themselves a microcosm of Society, and now with professional shrewdness took stock of the alien. No
sculptor, no practised sensualist, could have itemized her more fiercely. She was not "pretty," but in some
strangely dangerous way she was foreign to their comfortable cowardice. She was still untamed,
unbroken. It was not fair, thought the plumper ladies (though unaware they were thinking it), that a
woman of nubile age should still combine nymphlike grace with the gay insouciance of a boy. She was
carrying her hat in her hand, and the dark twist of her uncroppcd hair annoyed them as much as, not long
before, it would have annoyed them to see it short. They marked the flexile straightness of her figure, the
hang and stuff of the skirt, the bend of foot and ankle; exactly appraised, by the small visible slope of
stocking, the upper curves unseen. They noted the unbroken fall of her dark suit from armpit to hem as
she was swung sideways by a swerve of the train and threw up one elbow to keep her balance. The
ruddy young brakeman, meeting her just then, steadied her politely with his hand. She smiled as frankly
as a lad. She didn't even seem humiliated, Ruth thought, at having to pass through all these Pullmans on
her way to the day coaches.

But there was something deeper than that — something she couldn't profitably discuss with Ben. With the
clairvoyance of woman she saw, and resented, a creature somehow more detached and more
determined than herself. In a vague way, for which no words were possible, she recognized a spirit not
more happy but more finely unhappy; a spirit concerned with those impassioned curiosities of life which
Ruth knew existed and yet knew not how to approach. She felt the shamed envy and anger that some
bitter listener in the audience always feels toward the performer. There was something in that dark
childish face and alert reckless figure that made Ruth feel soft and frilly and powdered with sugar. The girl
was possessed by some essence, had some fatal current passing through her — something which, if
generally admitted, would demand extensive revision of the comfortable world. That was it, perhaps: she
looked as though she knew that things most women had agreed to regard as important, didn't really
matter. The Pullman microcosm resented this, as an anthology of prose would resent a poem that got into
it by mistake. The only satisfaction it could have, and the explanation of its pitiless appraisal, was the
knowledge that this poor creature too was mocked and fettered with a body, subject also to the dear
horrors of flesh.

With a sense of weariness and self-pity Ruth turned to the window and saw, far off, the hard blue line of
sea. They were emerging from the storm, the train hummed and rocketed over marshes and beside reedy
lagoons still prickled by the rain. On that horizon lay the memory of childhood to which she was now
returning. The chief satisfaction of revisiting juvenile surroundings is to feel superior to that pitiable era: to
appear, before one's old companions, more prosperous, circumstantial, handsome, and enviable than
they might have expected. But now even her gay little woollen sports hat seemed to have lost its
assurance. What right had a mere illustrator (and riding in a day coach) with something proud and eager
in her face, to start all these troublesome thoughts? She remembered that even as a child Joyce never
really joined in their games but watched apart with a shy unwillingness: a shyness which, if rubbed too
hard, could turn into bewildered rebellion. Ruth was always so intensely conscious of the existence of
other people that a merely random speculation as to what her friends were doing could prevent her all
day long from concentrating on her own affairs. Others were more real to her than herself. Now she was
painfully haunted by that look of conviction and fulfilment on the girl's face. Joyce looked unhappy (she
consoled herself a little with that) ; but it was a thrilling kind of unhappiness: an unhappiness scarcely to
be distinguished from ecstasy.

She pondered about this, wondering if she had ever looked like that? One of her secret anxieties was
that she herself was not passionate. Was that, she sometimes wondered, why she and Ben had never had
children? In her absorption she practised an expression on her face . . . "rapt" was the word that
occurred to her to describe it. Ben, reappearing from behind the paper, was alarmed by her appearance
and offered her a soda-mint tablet from the little bottle in his waistcoat pocket.
The dense air of the car began to be alive. After the barrens of pinewood and long upgrades over stony
pasture, now the train careered gloriously in the salty northern air, along beaches crusted with stale foam.
It cried aloud, its savage despairing chord: as though the fierce engine knew that after all its furious
burning labours, the flashing uproar of its toil, its human employers would descend at their destinations
unfreed, unaltered, facing there as elsewhere the clumsy comedies of life. Angrily it exulted along the
bright dwindle of rails which spread wide under the great wheels and narrowed again before and behind.
The telegraph poles came racing toward it, leaping up like tall threatening men; one by one they were
struck down and fled away. With swift elbowing pistons and jets of silver steam the engine roared,
glorious in its task; glorious in its blind fidelity and passion, caring nothing that all must be retraced in the
opposite direction tomorrow.

Joyce was standing in the vestibule of Godiva, smoking a cigarette. She had been there a great part of
the journey; fast trains always made her mind too busy for sitting still. She had pacified the at first
disapproving young brakeman by getting out her sketchbook and making a quick cartoon of him.

Not for many weeks had she been so unconsideringly happy. She never thought of trains as hurrying
toward something but rather fleeing wildly from. Those great eloquent machines (she hated to have to
board a train without seeing the engine first) crouched ready for flight like huge beasts breathing panic.
They were symbols of the universal terror; she trembled with excitement to feel the thrill of escape —
escape from anything. Escape, for the moment, from Time and Space. She wondered how any one could
ever sleep or be bored in a train. You'd think their faces would be transfigured when they got out. She
hummed to herself as she stood alone in the vestibule. Life seemed to be beginning all over again: her
mind was freshly sensitized to the oddity of human faces, to the colour and vitality of the country, the
strong swelling curves of the hills. I am flying, flying, she chanted; I am flying from a dream. I am a little
mad. My mind is fuller than it'll hold: all sorts of thoughts are slopping over the brim, getting lost because
there isn't room for them. I must let them flow faster so I can be aware of them all. What happens to the
thoughts that get spilt before you can quite seize them? I must ask George. . . . I wonder which George it
will be?

Once she had startled him by giving him a book she found in a second-hand store, The Four Georges.
For it amused her to insist that there were four of him: George the Husband, George the Father, George
the Publicity Man, and then George the Fourth — her George, the troubled and groping dreamer,
framed in an open window. . . .

Go and see Granville, said the Advertising Agent to her. He's getting up a booklet for the L or
somebody. He might be able to use some of these drawings of yours. And because it was urgent he had
given her the address. Her knees were quivery as she turned the bend in the corridor, looking for his
number.

It was a sultry day, the door of the little office was open. There was a window, high up at the back of the
old building, looking over the Brooklyn Bridge. He was leaning on the sill, the smoke of his pipe drifted
outward into that hot tawny light that hangs over the East River on summer afternoons. At first he did not
seem to hear her tap on the glass panel; then he turned, glanced at her steadily and without surprise. As
he had no idea she was coming she thought perhaps he had mistaken her for someone he knew.

"Look here," he said, "I want to show you something."

She put down her folder of drawings and crossed to the sill. He leaned there in his shirt sleeves, pointing
with the stem of his pipe, as easily as though they were old friends.

"See those tall lance-headed openings in the piers of the Bridge? Did you ever notice they look just like
great cathedral windows? And that pearl-blue light hanging in them, better than any stained glass."
She was too surprised, too anxious about showing him her drawings, to do more than murmur assent.

"I can tell you about it," he said, "because I don't know you. It isn't safe to tell people you know about
beautiful things. Those are the windows of my private cathedral."

How often she had lived again that first encounter. The ring of feet along the paved corridors, the blunt
slam of elevator gates, the steady tick of a typewriter in an adjoining office, telephones trilling here and
there in the big building like birds in an aviary, the murmur of the streets rising up to them through warm
heavy air. Always, in that city, she was a little mad. Where such steep terraces cut stairways on sky,
where every tread falls upon some broken beauty poets are too hurried to pick up, how can one be quite
sane? God pity the man (George said once) who has none of that madness in his heart.

I have a cathedral too, I have a cathedral too, she was repeating to herself, but too excited to say it. With
bungling fingers she untied the portfolio, rummaged through the drawings, found the one of an aisle of
trees in Central Park where the wintry branches lace themselves into an oriel.

He went through all the pictures. He only spoke twice.

"Who did these? You?" and then presently, "Here, this isn't fair. You've been trespassing in my city."

Then suddenly he paused, flushed, and became embarrassed. He became — as she would have said
afterward George the Third. He spoke of the Elevated Railroad's limited appropriation for promotion, of
the peculiar problems of transportation publicity, asked what was her usual price for art work, took her
name and address. . . . Perhaps George the Fourth would have died then and there, perished of cholera
infantum at the age of half an hour, never been heard of again except on a tablet in the imaginary
cathedral on Brooklyn Bridge . . . but as she left the office she shook so with purely nervous elation she
had to stop by the brass-rimmed letter chute in the hall. She was wishing she had the courage to go back
and ask him how soon the check could come through (Will he mail it here? she thought. Oh, blessed
chute!) . . . and then he came hurrying round the corner after her.

"Look here," he said, with pink-browed uncertainty, "I can't let you go away like this. The family's off in
the country. I'm devilish lonely. Will you have dinner with me and we can talk about New York?"

She was too amused and exultant to answer promptly. But George the Fourth, looking anxiously from his
bassinette, need not have been so afraid she was going to refuse. Do artists who have just made their first
real sale decline a square meal?

"We'll ride uptown in the L, to celebrate," he pleaded. "There's a bit where it turns right into the sunset for
a few blocks; if you stand on the front platform it's corking. And I know a place where we can get a
bottle of asti spumante. . . ."

The lighted candles of the Italian basement where they dined. At first his shyness had come back upon
him: he seemed to feel that taking any one but Phyllis out to dinner was an incredible truancy. Then, as
they looked anxiously at each other, some element in the blood broke free. His mind came running to her
like a child, like a boy lost in a world of tall stone buildings and clamouring typewriters. His poor shivered
ideas just fitted into the fractured edges of her own. He had been well drilled, but there was in him a little
platoon that had broken away from the draft and enlisted in the Foreign Legion.

"You know," he said, "I never talked like this to any one before. What is there about you that makes one
say what he really thinks? My mind feels as though someone had stolen its clothes while it was in bathing.
How will it be able to go back to work tomorrow?"

Warm golden candlelight and cold golden wine: the little table in the corner was a yellow island in a sea of
cigarette smoke, a sunny silence in the comforting hum of other people's chatter. In her own loneliness
she saw his mind like the naked footprint on Crusoe's beach.

There must have been another footprint there too: the footprint of a mischievous godling who runs the
beaches of the world as naked as Man Friday.

"The ideas I folded neatly and hid under a stone" (she could still hear him saying it, there was something
delightfully heavy in his way of saying stone), "the ideas I thought you have to leave behind when you go
bathing in the river of life, I think maybe I shall go back and look under that stone for them and see if they
aren't the most important of all. I thought they were just clothes. Maybe they were my bathing suit."

The figure of speech wasn't quite limpid. There was perhaps a little asti spumante in it, and a few gassy
bubbles of exaggeration. But she understood what he meant. Ten, eleven years older than she, how
young he seemed. He paused awhile, getting younger every moment. He waved away a drift of smoke.

"You must meet Phyllis," he said.

Then he had found, later, that it wasn't necessary, for she had known Phyllis as a child. How small the
world is, he said sadly. "Phyllis and I were small, too," she replied.

She wondered if there were four Phyllises also?

"Ten minutes to Dark Harbour," said Godiva's porter, coming into the vestibule with his whisk brush.
She hardly noticed him dusting her, she was thinking of George the Fourth, the perplexing phantom she
had accidentally startled into life. She felt for him a strange, almost maternal tenderness; an amusement at
some of his scruples, an admiration at the natural grace of his mind when he allowed himself to be
imaginative. But behind these, a kind of fear: for George the Fourth had grown gigantic in her dreams;
sometimes, in panic, she realized how much she thought about him. He was so completely hers because
he was hidden in the securest of hiding places — inside a person who belonged to someone else. So she
couldn't resist the invitation to go down to the Island, to renew memories of childhood . . . and the most
interesting of those ghostly children, she thought, would be George the Fourth, only twelve months old.
She had had to remind herself, sometimes, that the first three Georges did belong to others . . . but if you
have to keep reminding yourself of a thing, perhaps it isn't so. For the amazement had been mutual. She
had awakened George the Fourth, but he had awakened someone too. . . . And frightened by these
thoughts (it had been her lonely pride to stand so securely on her own feet) she was flying from the dream
of George to George himselfand Phyllis.

Over the wide sea meadows the train sounded its deep bluster of warning: a voice of triumph a voice of
pain, announcing reunions that cannot unite, separations that cannot divide. And George Granville — all
four of him, at that moment — driving over the long trestle to the mainland, heard it from afar, and in
sheer bravado echoed the cry with his horn.
                                                     X

In the bathtub Phyllis wondered, for the first time in her life, whether she was "literary." She sat soaping
her knees and revelling in coolness that came about her waist in a perfection of liquid embrace. She found
herself — perhaps because her eye had fallen on the volume in the den, while she and George were
bickering — thinking about Shakespeare. Now, in an intimate understanding that many an erudite scholar
has never attained, she perceived what the man with a beard was driving at. The plays, which she had
always politely respected as well-bred women do respect serious institutions, were something more than
gusts of fantastic tinsel interspersed with foul jokes — jokes she knew were foul without understanding
them. They were parables of the High Cost of Living — the cost to brain and heart and spirit of this
wildly embarrassing barter called life. The tormented obstreperous behaviour of his people was genuine,
after all: they were creatures in a dream, like herself; a dream more true than reality. She could have
walked on in any of the plays and taken a part without sense of incongruity. She felt as if she were a
phantom in one of the pieces: a creature in the mind of some unguessable dramatist who had mysteriously
decided to make a change in the plot. She thought how she and her friends had sometimes sat through
Shakespeare matinees, subconsciously comforting themselves with the notion that real people don't
behave that way.

Why, Bill, you poor old devil (she said to him), how you must have suffered to be able to write like that.
It made her feel quite tranquil by comparison. But of course her own particular absurdities had special
kinks in them that were unique: even He would have been surprised. But he would have understood.

A soft flow of air had begun to move after the storm. The big maple tree, just outside the bathroom
window, was gold-plated in the dropping sun. The window was above the bath and the ripple of those
gilded leaves reflected a gentle shimmer into the porcelain tub. Her shiny knees were glossed with pale
green light. Shakespeare would have liked that. She fished for the soap, which slipped round behind her
like a young thought.

I suppose that as long as I was 99 and 44/100 pure I never could appreciate him. But I don't know
whether I altogether enjoy people who understand so well. That's the trouble about George: he's getting
weirdly acute, poor soul. Now, Mr. Martin: he looks divinely sympathetic, but I don't think he quite. . . .
People wonder why one always confides in those who don't understand. But of course! To confide in
people who do is too terrible. Giving yourself away — yes, exactly: you no longer are keeper of your
own gruesome self. That's why the Catholic notion is so sound: confession to God is nothing at all, you
know He doesn't care. But to confess to a priest . . . golly, that must take courage.

She lay down for one last lustral wallow, closing her eyes with a calm sensation of new dignity and
refreshment. The cool water held her in peaceful lightness, lifting away whatever was agitated and
strange. For a moment body and spirit were harmoniously one, floating in a pure eddy of Time. I feel like
a nun, she thought. She rose, trickling, threw the big towel round her shoulders, and studied herself in the
long mirror. Really, I'm not much more than a child, she mused happily, admiring the slender, short-haired
figure in the glass. Or perhaps I feel like a harlot . . . a courtesan, nicer-sounding word. Discarding the
towel she struck a humorous parody of the Venus Aphrodite attitude, and then felt a little shocked. She
could feel her cheeks warming. She remembered George's coarse remark when they saw the statue. "It's
no use," he said. "Two hands can't do it. Any one as timid as that needs three." She sang a little refrain,
trying different tunes for it. She couldn't remember whether she had heard it, or just made it up:

What did Mrs. Shakespeare do
When William went away?
The soft flutter of maple leaves outside the window was like a soothing whisper. From the other side of
the house she could hear the click of croquet mallets and balls. Time for the children to have their supper,
or they won't be finished before the others get here. Thank goodness it was cooler, Lizzie wouldn't be so
harassed. Wrapping her silk kimono round her, she looked out of the window. Lizzie's flag was still
flying. With a rough delicacy of her own, the cook did not like to run out her private washing on the
family line, so she had strung a cord from the kitchen door to a branch of the maple tree. There, floating
like a hoist of signal buntings, were Lizzie's personalia: all the more conspicuous for her mistaken
modesty. They were indeed (it was George who had said it) like a string of code flags: a blue apron, a
yellow shirt, a pair of appalling red breeches. George always wanted to know to whom Lizzie might be
signalling with these homely pennants. They are a kind of signal, Phyllis thought. A signal that life goes on,
notifying any other household within eyeshot that here too the humble routine of kitchen and washtub and
ironing board, of roof and meat and sleep, triumphs in the end over the wildest poet's dream.
Shakespeare would have relished them, and been pleased to see these bright ensigns hoisted so frankly in
the yellow air.

Dressed in a gauzy drift of white and silver, she paused at the cushioned bay windows by the head of the
stair. Her body enjoyed that mixed feeling of snug enclosure and airy freedom which is the triumph of
feminine costume. Even her inward self shared something of this sensation: within the softly sparkling
raiment of thought she was aware of her compact kernel of identity tranquil for the moment, but privately
apprehensive and alert. On the oval grass plot Martin was playing croquet with the children. Janet, nicely
adjusting two tangent balls with a bare brown foot, gave them a well-aimed swipe. Phyllis heard the
sharp wooden impact and Martin's cry of good-humoured dismay as his globe went spinning across the
turf, leaving a darker stripe on the wet lawn. It bounded over the gravel and into the bushes, right by the
corner where she had first seen him. She watched him chase it, lay it on the edge of the turf, and drive it
back. How graceful he was! He raised his head with a little unconscious lift of satisfaction as he watched
the ball roll where he wanted it to lie.

A film seemed to have been skimmed from her eyes. Perhaps it was that level stream of evening light: the
figures moved in a godlike element of lustre: every motion was perfect, expressed the loveliness for which
life was intended, was unconscious and exact as the movements of animals. They were immersed in their
game as though there were no past, no future: she felt she could watch them for ever. Martin's face,
gravely intent, bent over his ball. She saw the straight slope of his back against the screen of shrubs. The
mallet clicked, there was a sharp tinkle as the ball went through the middle hoop, touching the little bell
that hung there. How can any one look so charming and yet be so hard to talk to?

Through the scooped hollow of the dunes, catching tawny sparks from the sand, violet dazzles from the
sea, the cleansed radiance of sunset came pouring in. The children's bare legs splashed in brightness as
though they were paddling; honey-coloured light parted and closed again about their ankles, the wet
shadows dripped and trailed under their feet. The house, growing dusky, was a dyke stemmed in the
onset of that pure flood. It caught and held as much darkness as it could; the rest went whirling out. As if
in answer to the little croquet bell, the old clock in the hall whirred and jangled six hoarse clanking
strokes. They eddied a moment and then were whiffed away by the strong, impalpable current that
seemed to be sweeping through. You could tell, by the dull sound, that the gong was rusty. No wonder, a
house by the seashore, empty so long.

After the cough of the clock silence came up the shaft of the stairway. Not themselves alone, but the
house too, had its part in everything. She could feel its whole fabric attentive and watchful, and wondered
how she could have been heedless of this before. A house of ugly pattern, with yellow wainscots and
fretsawed mantels and panes of gaudy glass: but she guessed now, what one can only learn under strange
roofs, how precious houses are. And how wary they have to be, fortresses against fierce powers,
sunshine, darkness, gale. Life has flowed through them: clocks have chimed, logs crumbled, stairs
creaked under happy feet. These whispers are all they have to treasure: if you leave them alone too long
they get morbid, full of sullen fancies. She remembered herself, visiting that house as a child, once seated
at this same window, watching others play croquet . . . was it memory, or only the trick of the mind that
splits the passing instant and makes one live it twice?

"Come, children!" she called from the window. "Time for your supper."

She went slowly down the stairs. Be calm, be calm, she said to herself; this too will pass; this isn't
Shakespeare but only the children's supper time. But the flow of her blood warmed and quickened as
water grows hot while you wait with your hand under the bathroom faucet. On the landing, where a shot
of sunlight came arrowing through from the sitting-room window, she waited to adjust a slipper. She
could hear them on the gravel outside. If he came in now he would find her just so, gilded and silvered
like a Christmas card. But their voices remained on the veranda where the children's meal was laid. She
could not afford to wait long. Now, now, were a few precious moments. This was a dream: and dreams
must be recorded at once or they vanish for ever.

She heard one of them sneeze. It was Janet: she knew all their sneezes and coughs by ear. Yes, they
probably have caught cold, bathing in that storm. And they have to sleep outdoors tonight, too: on the
porch, because of this infernal Picnic. It's much colder; the thermometer must have dropped twenty
degrees. She hurried to get the sweaters from the cupboard under the stairs.

They were sitting at the veranda table, with milk and bread and jam. Mr. Martin was in the fourth chair.
He looked as though he too was ready for supper.

"Well, chickabiddies, did you have a good bathe? I hope you didn't catch cold. Here, put on your
sweaters."

They looked up at her gaily. Their upper lips were wet and whitish.

"How pretty you look!" exclaimed Janet.

She had meant to toss him a brief, clear, friendly little gaze; an orderly hostess-to-pleasant-guest regard;
but this from Janet startled her. She could see that he was holding her in his eye, meditating the accuracy
of Janet's comment. She did not feel ready to face him.

"Thank you," she said lightly. And added, "Wipe your mouths after drinking."

"He says that's a milk moustache," cried Rose, gesturing to the visitor. "It makes you healthy."

Phyllis made a clucking reproach with her tongue.

"You mustn't point. It's not polite to say he. Say 'Mr. Martin.' Jay dear, after supper run and put away
the mallets. I've told you, I don't know how often, not to leave them lying on the lawn. . . . Oh, not you,
Mr. Martin. Janet'll do it after her supper."

But he was up already and gone to get them. I suppose this perpetual correcting sounds silly to him, she
thought. But how can I help it? George never disciplines them.

"It makes him hungry to watch us eat," said Sylvia. "He wants some supper."

"He's joking with you. We'll have ours by and by."

She followed him into the garden. As she put her crisp silver slipper on the tread of the veranda steps she
saw how the foot widened slightly to carry her weight. How terribly I'm noticing things. Something
flickered at the corner of her eye: she suspected it was Lizzie, at the pantry window, trying to attract her
attention. A throng of trifles jostled at the door of her mind, tapping for admission. Probably the ice has
given out, after such heat. Well, then, they'll have to do without cocktails. I can fix the sandwiches tonight
when everyone's in bed. If it turns chilly there won't be enough blankets. Nounou won't be back until late,
I must get the children started to bed before . . . I won't think of these things.

He had put away the croquet implements.

"Thank you. We've just time for a little stroll before the others get here. — I hope you'll like Mr. and
Mrs. Brook. They're extremely nice, really, but a bit heavy."

"Perhaps they eat too much." He said it with the air of one courteously offering a helpful suggestion.

She had wanted, wanted so to be alone with him: she had a desperate feeling that there were urgent
things to be said, and now she could utter nothing. Her mind ran zigzagging beside her, like a questing
dog, while she tried to steer their talk into some channel of reality. Her thoughts kept crowding massively
under her uneasy words, pushing them out before they were ready, cutting into her speech like italics in a
page of swarthy Roman type.

"We all eat too much in hot weather, I dare say. Oh, if I could only write him a letter I could make
him understand. He's so sophisticated, I suppose the quaint things he says are his way of making
fun of me. Why did I suggest our walking like this? You can't see a person's face when you're
walking side by side. And if we go round the path again, Lizzie will get me from the pantry. Let's
sit down on the bench."

"It's wet, it'll spoil your pretty skirt."

Skirt! . . . What a word for this mist of silvery tissue she had put on specially for him.

"So it is. Well, let's see what the storm has done to the roses."

The little walk under the trellis was flaked with wet petals.

"Poor darlings, there's not much left of them now. If Shakespeare was here I should feel the same
way. Speechless. Why, he's like a god: lovely to think about, impossible to talk to. He doesn't give
anything, just absorbs you: you feel like a drop of ink on a blotter. I have a horrid suspicion that the
ice has given out, you mustn't mind if your cocktail is warm."

He kept looking at her in brief glances. Each time she met them it was like getting a letter in some familiar
handwriting but stamped with a strange postmark.

"Are they better cold?"

I give up, I give up. It's no use. I can't even think. There's some sort of veil, mist, between us. He
is a kind of god. He's brightness, beauty. Every movement he makes is a revelation and a
question. How can I speak to him when all I want is to love him. There's nothing earthy, nothing
gross about this. It's lovelier than anything I ever dreamed of. And if I tried to tell any one it
would sound like tawdry farce. . . .

Dimly she divined what lay between them, what always lies between men and gods, making them such
embarrassed companions — the whole of life, the actual functions of living; the sense of absurdity (enemy
of all tender beauty); trained necessities for silence, that darken the intuitions of the soul.

It's as impossible as — as the New Testament. I feel like Christmas Eve: there's a new Me being
born. You can't have a Nativity without pangs. And not even any one to bring me frankincense
and myrrh. . . .

She stopped, picked one of the late rosebuds, and put it in his lapel. She checked a frightened impulse to
tell him that she named the baby Rose because it was her favourite flower and she looked so like a
rosebud when she was born. This was courage, because to say it would have carried on the doomed
conversation one paragraph farther in safety. To any one else she would have said it. But now she spoke
shakenly, from far within.

"You're not easy to talk to — Martin."

His face changed, he looked less anxious. He took her hand. She found herself not surprised: it seemed
entirely natural. She felt his fingers lace into hers. Just as Janet does, she thought.

"I get frightened when people talk to me," he said.

She looked at him, worshipping. The bad spell was broken. Instantly she felt they could communicate.
He was frightened too — the precious! Over his shoulder she caught sight of the little old-fashioned
weather vane on the stable, a gilded galloping horse with flowing tail. Always racing in blue emptiness and
never getting anywhere. Like Time itself; like this marvellous instant, so agonizingly reached, that could
never come again. No one who knew her in her daily rote would quite have recognized her then as she
looked into his eyes. She was completely herself, born again in innocence, in the instinctive yearning for
what she knew was good. The unknown ripeness of woman woke for an instant from its long drug of
peevish days, small decisions, goaded nothings. Humbled, purified, bewildered, she saw the dark face of
Love, the god too errant for heaven and who suffers on earth like a man.

"Martin, I love you."

"I love you too," he said politely.

Beyond the stable she heard the sound of the car.
                                                    XI

"It was just adorable of you to come."

Ruth was getting out of the car. They kissed.

"Why Phyllis! How sweet you look! Gracious: I thought this was a Picnic, and here you are in a dance
frock. For heaven's sake lead me to hot water. Those awful Pullmans; I'm simply speckled with cinders. I
feel gritty all over."

That of course, must be Miss Clyde, on the front seat.

"How do you do! After all these years! I don't suppose we'd have known each other. But we ought to,
George admires your work so much."

They shook hands. It was a hard, capable little hand, calloused like a boy's. Phyllis knew now that she
remembered the grey-green eyes: agates, gold-flecked, with light behind them. Eyes softly shadowed
underneath, as though from too much eagerness to understand; eyes dipped in darkness. The small shy
child of long ago, who stood apart from games. How many strange moments had both been through
since last they met?

George was getting out the suitcases. He was afraid to watch Phyllis and Joyce greet. When a finely
adjusted balance hovers in equilibrium you don't breathe on the scales.

"We were on the same train," cried Ruth, "and never recognized each other."

Ben felt the twinge of anxiety common to the husband who hears his wife tell an unnecessary fib. Ruth
had said this once before already, in the car, so perhaps it was important. Her allusion to Pullmans, also,
was based (he suspected) on the erroneous notion that Miss Clyde had ridden in a day coach. But he
liked to back Ruth up, if he knew what she was heading for.

"I guess we've all changed," he said mildly. "The old house hasn't, it looks just the same."

"Miss Clyde's brought her paint box," George said. "She's going to do a picture."

"Oh, yes, and we have another — why, that's fine, Miss Clyde — we have another artist here too, Mr.
Martin. You must all come in and meet him."

She stood holding the screen door aside, welcoming them in. George, coming last, saw how her cheerful
smile faded to expressionless blank when the guests had passed. She had relapsed into automatic
Hostess. How lonely she must be to look like that. I wish it was over, he thought. His mind felt like a
spider that has caught several large flies at once: the delicate web was in danger of breaking.

They entered the hall.

"It isn't changed a bit!" Ruth said. "Exactly as I remember it — except it seems smaller. That old table,
for instance, that used to be just enormous. Well, hot water first. I can sentimentalize much better when
I'm clean."

George was thinking: Ruth's probably the kind of woman who always twists the toothpaste tube
crooked, but her babble will help us around corners.

"I hope Miss Clyde won't mind being in the little sitting room downstairs: you see we're just camping out
here, you must all make yourselves at home."

Joyce tried to frame some appropriate reply to Phyllis's clear, faintly hostile voice. She was in the tranced
uneasiness of revisit. Coming from the station she had been trying to realize the Island again: her mind
was startled by the permanence of the physical world. Things she had not thought of for so long — things
that she had apparently been carrying, unawares, in memory — were still there, unaltered, reproaching
her own instability. The planks of the station platform, the old scow rotting in the mud, the road of
crushed oyster shells, the same vacancy of sand and sky.

In the car she and George were both achingly mute. There seemed to be a sheet of glass between them.
The Brooks emitted cheerful chatter from the back seat, George replied with bustling geniality, his only
mask. How wonderful if they could just have made this ride in silence; she had a feeling that all sorts of
lovely meanings were escaping her. There was the notch of blue light where the road slipped over a
prickling horizon of pines. How just right were the slopes of the puppy-coloured sand-hills, the tasselled
trees against the pure lazy air, the coloured veining of the fields. Now, now; here, here; I'm here and
now, she had to remind herself. It's God's world, whatever that can mean. Golly, you must be careful
how you make fun of religion: it's a form of art. She imagined a painting of that aisle of sandy road,
climbing through the tall resiny grove. Religion would be a good name for it. — George had never
seemed so far away as now when she sat beside him. Would it always be like that? Oh, teach yourself
not to love things, she thought. Be indifferent. It's love that causes suffering, it's tenderness that weighs
heavy on the heart. How ridiculous to say that God loves the world. He doesn't give a damn about it,
really. That's why He's so cheerful . . . such a competent artist. His hand doesn't shake. Still, I don't think
I want to meet Him. It's a mistake to meet artists you admire; they're always disappointing.

"I shouldn't have come here," she said. "I love it too much. Those trees. They look so surprised. I have a
guilty passion for pine trees."

Driving the faithful car had strengthened George. Even the paltriest has an encouraged sense of
competence with that steady tattoo underneath his feet. The artist that lay printed like a fossil in George's
close-packed heart — the artist that only Joyce had ever relished always responded to the drum of the
engine. He adored the car; when he drove alone to the Island (sending the family by train) he sang to her
most of the way. This was his guilty passion. Now it was the car's rhyming vitality that came to his
rescue. He broke the glass. He cut himself, but he got through.

"Any kind of love is too much," he said.

Then he was grieved to find himself uttering such a cheap oracle; but it comforted Joyce because she saw
it was a symptom. It showed that he was trying to tell the truth. She did not dare look at him: she was too
conscious of the others behind them, who seemed as massively attentive as an audience in a theatre. Then
in a wave of annoyance, Surely I have a right to look where I want? She did so. She could see the
confidential tilt of his eyebrow so plainly, she knew he was hers for the taking. Nothing but themselves
could stand between them.

"How queer: that's just what I was thinking," she told the eyebrow.

"Oh, do you believe in telepathy?" chirped Ruth. "Ben sometimes knows exactly what I'm thinking
without my saying a word."

It can't happen often, George thought.

"What were you laughing at?" he found time to ask her, as the others were descending from the car.

"I was just thinking, there's not much danger of my meeting God, because I'm not pure in heart."
"Oh, I shall be perfectly comfortable anywhere," she said.

The single swathe of sunshine carved the hall, dividing it into two dusks as the word Now divides one's
mind. All, all unchanged: the series of hemispherical bronze gongs at the dining-room door, the wakeful
asthma of the tall clock, the wide banistered stairway with its air of waiting to creak. The soft, gold-sliced
shadow trembled with small sounds, and light voices of children drifted down from above. If this was still
real, then what was her life of today? Why pretend any longer to make the world seem reasonable? It
was all a delightful ironic farce with an audience applauding the wrong moments and the Author gritting
his teeth in the wings. What use was Time if it availed so little?

The broad stream of sunlight flowed through the house like a steady ripple of Lethe, washing away the
sandy shelves of trivial Now, dissolving little edges of past and future into its current, drawing all Time
together in one clear onward sluice. What are we waiting for, she wondered. What is everyone waiting
for, always? She was painfully aware of George standing near her. It was not silence that sundered them,
but their grotesque desire to speak.

"George," Phyllis was saying, "you give Ben a drink or something while I take the ladies — "

In the shadow beyond the table there was a clicking sound. Through the wide opening of the dining-room
double doors two figures crawled, on all fours, with a toy train. Janet was in her pyjamas, ready for bed.
Martin's hand moved the engine across the floor. They came into the stripe of sunset.

"Wait a minute!" cried Janet. "Here's one of the passengers."

"Put him in," said Martin. "And then the train goes round a sharp curve and smashes into a lot of people,
bing!"

"Quick, I'll telephone for a nambulance. You adbretized Perfect Safety on this railroad. It said so in your
booklet."

"Well, if people will sit down for a Picnic right on the main line — "

"Goodness, what a nasinine thing to do."

"They were using the hot rails to fry their bacon on."

"Here's the doctor. Are there any children hurt?"

"Children all safe," said Martin, looking carefully through the wreckage. "A lot of grown-ups badly
damaged."

"Here's the pistol. Put them out of their misery."

"Bang-bang-bang!"

"They didn't suffer much. I'll go for the wrecking train."

"Janet!" exclaimed Phyllis. "What are you doing, running about the house in your pyjamas. And you've
got sniffles already."

The two players looked up; but they could see nothing outside their tunnel of brightness. The voice
seemed like imagination.

"Of course the railroad company will have to pay money for those valuable lives," said Martin regretfully.
"I'll get the blocks, we can build a norphan asylum for the surveyors."

"Not surveyors, survivors."

"Janet! Say good-night to Mr. Martin and run upstairs."

This time the command was unmistakable. Janet became aware of tall ominous figures emerging from the
surrounding dusk.

"Good-night!" she cried hastily, and ran.

"I'm afraid Janet's manners are terrible," Phyllis said. "She ought to have shaken hands, but I don't like to
call her back now, she'll catch more cold."

Two other forms appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Is tomorrow the Picnic?" they called anxiously.

Martin was still sitting on the floor, musing over the disaster. Janet halted halfway up and shouted. "He
says you said Damn the Picnic."

Sylvia and Rose burst into snivels. There was a moment of difficult pause. Martin realized that something
was happening and began collecting the train.

"You promised the Picnic for tomorrow," he said, looking up from where he was kneeling.

"Yes, yes, tomorrow, don't worry," George shouted to the children.

"Mr. Martin's been awfully kind at keeping them amused," said Phyllis. "Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs.
Brook, Miss Clyde. — George, turn on the light, Mr. Martin can't see us."

The button clicked, the bulbs jumped to attention, mere loops of pale wire beside the orange shaft of sun.
Martin scrambled suddenly to his feet.

"How do you do," he said.

"What stunning towels," Ruth remarked as Phyllis was pointing out the hot-water tap. The embroidery of
Phyllis's maiden initials was luxuriously illegible, in some sort of Old High German character. "Surely
those didn't come with the house?"

"No; they're mine; all that's left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels."

But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes.

"Your artist man is rather extraordinary," she said. "Why should any one so attractive need to be so
bashful?"

"He's not really bashful. — There, I think you'll find everything you need."

The light twinkled on a tray of yellowish glasses on the sideboard. George unlocked the cupboard, took
out a bottle, and split open a new box of cigarettes with his thumbnail. There's a consolation in having
these small things to do, he thought. Meanwhile, what am I really thinking of? I suppose she's washing her
hands. It's awkward having her downstairs. She'll want to change. . . .

I don't believe she's got a mirror in there. We can hardly expect her to use the bookcase panes.
"Excuse me a moment," he said. "Ben, pour the tonic. It's good stuff." Mr. Martin was still standing by the
door uncertainly, holding the toy engine. Heavens, does the fellow have to be moved round like a chess
man? He's so difficult to talk to, somehow. George made a cordial gesture, indicating that Mr. Martin
might as well join Ben at the sideboard. Martin crossed the room obediently.

The anxious host glanced into the sitting room. Yes: Phyllis, with her usual skill, had turned the desk into a
dressing table: there was a fresh doily on it, a vase of flowers, and the mirror from his own bureau
upstairs. Already, though she hadn't entered it yet, the room was no longer his but Joyce's. It had
become private, precious, and strange. Here, in the very centre of his own muddled affairs, was suddenly
a kernel of unattainable magic. Why in God's name had Phyllis put her in his room? It was too savagely
ironic. In my heart, in my mind, in my very bed, and I can't even speak to her. It's too farcical. If I didn't
have to keep it secret we could all laugh about it. Secrecy is the only poison.

He carried in Joyce's suitcase and paint box, put them on the couch, and fled.

"Well, Ben, I saved my last bottle for this party. It'll help us live through the Picnic. Mr. Martin, aren't you
drinking?"

"What is it?" asked Martin.

"Try it and see. You don't need to worry. It's real."

Ben held up his glass, prolonging anticipation. The fine vatted aroma of the rye cheered his nostrils. Here
at least was one trifle which helps assuage the immense tedium of life.

"Funny to see the old place again," he said. "How well I remember those coloured panes. Well . . ."

"Never drink without a sentiment," said George.

"All right: stained glass windows."

"Is this your first visit?" Ben began politely; but the other guest was still coughing and gagging. His eyes
were full of tears.

Not used to good stuff, George thought. You don't get much of this genuine rye nowadays. He and Ben
waited, rather embarrassed, until the other had stopped patting his chest. Ben lit a cigarette and blew a
ring.

Martin's face brightened. He put out his finger and hooked the floating twirl.

"That's lovely!" he said. "How do you do it?"

Ben was pleased at this tribute to his only social accomplishment.

"Why, it's quite easy. Get a big mouthful of smoke, purse your lips in a circle, like the hole in a doughnut,
and raise your tongue suddenly to push the smoke out."

"Do it again."

Ben looked so comic, shaping his mouth, Martin couldn't help laughing.

"You look like a catfish. Can you do it too?"

"Not so well as Ben. Gosh, didn't you ever see any one blow smoke rings before?"
"No. My father doesn't smoke."

Ben looked a little perplexed. He had an uneasy feeling that perhaps the artist was making fun of them in
some obscure way.

Phyllis called from the stairs. "George, will you come up and speak to the children? They want to be
reassured about the Picnic."

"Do I have to finish this medicine?" Martin asked.

George grinned at him, rather tickled by this drollery.

"You must do as you think best. Make yourselves at home, you fellows. I'll be back in a minute."

"Don't you like it?" said Ben.

"No."

"Well, I can help you."

"It was nice of you to blow a smoke ring to amuse me."

There was silence, which Ben concluded by taking the other glass of whisky.

"Happy days," he said.

"Tomorrow will be a happy day," Martin said. "We're going to be reassured by a Picnic."

"Have a cigarette," was all that Ben could think of.

"Who were the ladies you brought with you?"

"Well, one of them's my wife."

"Which, the pretty one?"

Ben poured himself another slug. He felt he needed it. He had a strong desire to laugh, but there was
sincere inquiry in Mr. Martin's eyes. He really wanted to know.

"Ask them," he said.

Phyllis came into the room.

"It'll soon be dinner time. You people all ready?"

Martin held out his arms. It was so nearly the substance of her dream, she moved forward to enter his
embrace. Ben's face of surprise checked her in time. She took Martin's hands.

"Mr. Martin is my guest of honour," she explained lightly.

"He seems to be," said Ben, and finished his glass.

They stood a moment. Then Martin said, "You didn't look at them."

"At what?"

"My hands. I mean, are they clean enough?"
Janet and Sylvia were already in the two cots on the balcony; but their eyes were waiting for George,
with that look of entreating expectancy worn by those who look upward from bed. In the lustrous garden
air crickets were beginning to wheedle. The rickety old porch seemed an alcove of simpleness divided
from the absurd tangled emotions of the house. But even here was passion: the little white trousered
figures sprang up, their strenuous arms clutched him, their eyes were dark with anxiety. With horror he
saw how they appealed to him as omnipotent all-arranging arbiter. Him, the poor futile bungler! They
crushed him with the impossible burden of their faith.

"Yes, we'll have the Picnic tomorrow. Now you go to sleep and get a good rest."

"Mother forgot to hear our prayers."

He stood impatient as they lengthily rehearsed, one after the other, their confident innocent petitions. The
clear voices chirruped, but he shut their words from his mind, as regardless as God. Would they never
finish? To hear these dear meaningless desiderations was too tender a torment. He tried to think of other
things — of anything — of the sea; of washing his hands and putting on a clean collar; of the striped
brown and silver tie that he intended to wear tomorrow (Joyce had never seen it); and what on earth are
we going to do to amuse these people after dinner?

". . . and Mother and Daddy and all friends kind and dear; and let tomorrow be a nice day for the Picnic
. . ."

Poor little devils, he thought; they seem as far away from me as if they were kittens or puppies. People
pretend that children are just human beings of a smaller size, but I think they're something quite different.
They live in a world with only three dimensions, a physical world immersed in the moment, a reasonable
world, a world without that awful sorcery of a fourth measurement that makes us ill at ease. What is it
their world lacks? Is it self-consciousness, is it beauty, is it sex? (Three names for the same thing,
perhaps.) Little Sylvia with her full wet eyes, what torments of desire she would arouse some day in some
deluded stripling.

Strange world of theirs: a world that has no awareness of good and evil; a world merely pretty, whereas
ours is beautiful. A world that knows what it wants; whereas we are never quite sure.

He looked at them with amazement. Where did they come from, how did they get there? They were
more genuine than himself, they would still be in this incredible life long after he had been shovelled out of
it. How soon would they begin to see through the furious pettiness of parents? See that we do everything
we punish them for attempting, that we torture them for our own weakness, set their teeth on edge for the
taste of our own green grapes?

He tucked them in, gave each rounded hill of blanket a consoling pat, and left them. Joyce was standing
in the passage. She had changed her clothes and was wearing a plain grey linen dress. He wanted to tell
her that she was one of the unbelievably rare women who never have a pink strap of ribbon running loose
across one shoulder. There must be some solution of that problem? A man would have abolished it long
ago. But she's on her way to the bathroom, I suppose; it'll be more polite if I just stand aside and let her
pass without saying anything. Besides, we can't talk here, right outside Ruth's door.

But she did not move. Evidently she had been watching his little scene with the children. In a flicker of the
mind he wondered whether his part in it had looked creditable. He was afraid it had. For now, to her at
any rate, he hankered to be known as the troubled imbecile he really was.

"And you wonder why I envy you," she said.

He didn't answer. He was busy reminding himself that that was what her eyes were like. It is only a few
times that any man has the chance or the will to search the innermost bravery of other human faces. He
had thought much about her eyes, had imagined the fine glory of telling them about themselves.
Foreigners, he would call them; bright aliens not quite at home in the daily disasters of earth's
commonplace. Foreigners, but he was on the pier waiting for them. They seemed to know that life is a
precious thing and that we are always in danger of marring it. He imagined them as they would be if their
shadow of questioning were skimmed away; if they were flooded with the light of complete surrender, of
reckless trust. But how can these things be said? There is no code, he thought: so perhaps the wise
presently abandon attempt to communicate. The gulf surrounds us all; only here and there on the horizon
a reversed ensign shows where some stout spirit founders in silence. Or now and then, in the casual
palaver of the day, slips out some fantastic phrase to show how man rises from clay to potter, can even
applaud the nice malice of his own comedy.

He had got beyond the point where he could talk to her in trivialities. He must say all or nothing.

"Lucky children," she said. "I wish I had someone to hear my prayers. — If I had, I might say some."

"I didn't hear them. I wasn't listening; I couldn't. Oh, Joyce, Joyce, there's so much I want to say, and
your eyes keep interrupting me."

He thrilled a little at himself, and felt better. For he had his Moments: unforeseen felicities when he said
the humorous and necessary word: and when his Moments came he could not help gloating over them.
She gloated too, for she relished that innocent glee when he congratulated his own mind. When himself
was his own guest of honour, and he stood genially at the front door.

So she smiled. What other woman could ever reward a lucky phrase with such magic of wistful
applause?

"I apologize for them. They didn't mean to be rude."

She was so young and straight in her plain frock, so blessedly unconscious of herself. He thought of her
fine strong body, the ungiven body that was so much her own, near him again after all the miracles of life
that divide flesh from flesh and then bring it again within grasp; her sweet uncommanded beauty,
irrelevant perhaps, yet so thrillingly a symbol of her essence. The noble body, poor blasphemed
perfection, worshipped in the dead husks of statue and painting and yet so feared in its reality. He had to
remind himself that it was irrelevant. How could any man with a full quota of biology help dream of
mastering that cool, unroused detachment? Ah, he had already had all of her that was imperishable: her
dreams, her thoughts, her poor secret honesties. She had given him these, and nothing could spoil them.
He had agreed with himself that his love was merely for her mind. (Distressing thought!) It was only the
ridiculous need of keeping this passion to themselves that darkened and inflamed it. If it could be
announced it would instantly become the purest thing on earth. It would be robbed of its sting. He
imagined an engraved card:

Mr. and Mrs. George Granville
have the honour to announce
the betrothal of Mr. Granville's mind
to that of Miss Joyce Clyde
Nothing Carnal

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments."

But this would satisfy no one. Perhaps not even themselves. And people don't like things to be pure: it
casts a rebuke on their own secrets.

"Joyce, let's make our announcement at this party."

"What announcement?" She looked startled.

"Why that our minds are engaged."

Her hand, in his, tightened a little, reproachfully.

"George, before you go down. Who is this Mr. Martin?"

"I don't really know; some friend of Phyl's. I never saw him before. She says he's going to do a portrait
of her. I think he's kidding her."

He turned toward the stairs and then called her back.

"Listen," he said softly. "When I say something, after dinner, about putting the car away, that's your cue.
Slip away and come with me. I want to show you something."
                                                     XII

The kitchen, that had been a core of fiery heat all day, was now more comfortable. Lizzie sat in an easy
slouch, elbows on the oilcloth table cover, enjoying her own supper before attacking the great piles of
dishes. The cleansed air, drifting through the open window, struck pleasantly on the moist glow of her
body. There was a light tread on the back steps and the squeak of the screen door. The cook felt too
deservedly slack to turn, but removed her mouth from the ear of corn just far enough to speak.

"Back early, ain't you?"

"Yeah. Brady's shofer was coming this way in their station wagon. Save me walking later on."

"Didn't expect you so soon, nice night like this."

"Well, Brady's bus was coming. Say, that fellow's got a nerve, all right."

Nounou tossed her hat on the shelf; ran her hands through her hair, sat down wearily in the other chair.

"Kids in bed?"

"Sure, before dinner. I'm glad you're back. You can give me a hand with the dishes."

"Where's all the folks?"

"On the porch."

Nounou got up, glanced cautiously through the pantry window, then took a cigarette from her bag and lit
it. Lizzie, a native of Dark Harbour, reflected sombrely on the ways of metropolitan nursemaids.

"There's ice cream in the freezer if you want some."

"No, thanks. Brady's man blew me in the village. Gee, that boy's fresh."

Lizzie was a little annoyed at this repetition. It was a long time since any one had paid her the compliment
of being fresh.

"It's the weather. Hot days and cool nights always makes trouble."

A brief silence. The kettle steamed softly on the range, Lizzie gnashed at her corncob, Nounou blew a
gust of smoke and measured the stacks of dishes with a gloomy eye. Washing up was no part of her job,
but she was somewhat in awe of the older woman; and the cook's dogged abstraction as she leaned over
her food suggested that she had matter to impart.

"This place is certainly dead," Nounou grumbled. "Two miles to walk to the village, and a movie one night
a week. Gosh, what a dump to spend summer in. Honest, Liz, I'm so tired workin', if I'd got that
insurance o' mine paid up I'd quit a spell."

"Keeps you from thinkin', don't it? If I had your job I wouldn't kick. Wear white cloes and lay out in the
sun with them kids."

"You'd ought to get a place in the city. A good cook like you are could make big money."

"It ain't so dead round here as you might think. Say, you know that man was in the garden 'smorning, the
one the children took such a shine to. Is he an old friend to the family?"
"Who? — the one that asked for a piece of cake? Never saw him before. I thought he acted kinda
crazy."

"Well, they got him stayin' in the house. He must be someone they know pretty well, he calls 'em all to
their first names. Say, I wish you'd seen 'em at supper, honest it was a sketch."

"Who all is there?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Brook, just usual sort o' people; and a dame they call Miss Clyde, dark and a bit
serious-lookin'; and this Mr. Martin. Well, for the lovamike, when I go in to fix the table I see smoke
coming out from behind that screen in the corner, I think something's afire. I run over and there's Mr.
Martin setting on the floor smoking on a cigarette. He looks at me sort of frightened, then he laughs and
says not to tell anybody because he's learnin' to make rings. He stands around talkin' to me while I'm
laying the table, and then Mrs. G. comes in. He says to her 'Do I have to go to bed right after dinner?'
The funny thing is he's got a cheerful kind of way about him, you don't much mind what he does, he does
it so natural. Of course she knowed he was jokin', she says he can set up as late as he likes. He says it's
nice to be able to do whatever you want to and he asks me if we're going to have anything good for
supper. Then he asks if he can ring the gong. I always like to do that, he says. Mrs. G. and me both busts
out laughing. We laughed and laughed like a couple of fools. I was trying to remember what we was
laughing at. I don' know, we just screeched. He smiles too, kinda surprised. There's something about him
puts me in mind of the way I used to find things comical when I was a kid. I remember one day I got sent
home from school for laughing. It just struck me funny to see the harbour out there and the sunlight on the
water and people going up and down the street talkin'."

Nounou tried to imagine what Lizzie looked like as a young girl, convulsed with mirth.

"They all comes in to eat. By and by, while I'm serving the consommay, he leans over and whispers to
her — he's settin' at her right. No one else can hear, but I got it, I was right in back of 'em. When I'm in
bed, he says, will you come and tuck me in? Well, I wish you could seen her, as red and rosy; she looks
swell tonight anyhow in that silver layout o' hers. I never seen any one look prettier; I think that other
dame, Mrs. Brook, was kinda sore at Mrs. G. for wearin' it."

Nounou put down her cigarette in amazement.

"You must've got them wrong," she said. "These ain't that kinda folks, you're crazy."

"You never know what kinda people people is till you live in the house with 'em. 'Course it don't mean
nothing to me what-all stuff they pull. But listen what I'm telling you. This Mr. Martin is quiet, he don't talk
an awful lot, but every once and a while he comes through with something that knocks 'em cold. Going to
bed seems to be on his mind. Next thing he says, right out loud, 'It's nice being in bed, it gives you a
chance to be alone.'

"I couldn't hear so much, bein' in an' out o' the room; an' the whole thing was on my shoulders anyways,
because honest to God Mrs. G. was in some kind of a swound. I declare she didn't seem to know
what-all was coming off. What with that Mr. Martin talking to me I forgot to put any bread at the places,
and will you believe it she never took notice on it until Mrs. Brook piped up for some. When I pass Mrs.
G. the peas she takes a ladlefull and holds it over her plate so long I didn't know what to do. Oh, of
course, they all talk along smart and chirpy, the way folks does at a dinner party, pretend to kid each
other an' all, but I can see it don't mean nothing. Mrs. Brook has some line she thinks a lot of, she springs
it on Miss Clyde, I reckon you're wedded to your art she says, throwing it at her pretty vicious. It was
bad for Mrs. Brook, I'll admit, setting between Mr. Martin and Mr. G. Because Mr. G. don't make up to
her none, he's talking to the Clyde girl all the time; and Mr. Martin don't buzz her none neither. She sings
out how much she does love children and Mr. Martin says But do they love you? A good piece of the
time she has to talk to her husband, across the table, and you know that makes any woman sore at a
party. Once and a while Mrs. G. comes to life and says something about what a good time we'll have to
the Picnic; this Martin says Yes, he hankers to see Mr. Granville climb a tree. Mr. G. wants to know
what he'll be climbing trees for. 'Why,' says Mr. Martin. 'I heard her say you'd be up a tree if that check
didn't come in today.' Then Mr. Martin says he likes the way Mr. G. and Miss Clyde looks at each
other, as though they had secrets together. He's got an attractive way to him, but it seems like he says
whatever comes into his head. What-all way is that to behave?"

Lizzie had looked forward to telling Nounou about the dinner. Now she felt with a keen disappointment
that it was impossible to describe it adequately. Besides, what she had intended to say would perhaps
sound too silly. Mr. Martin looks like some old lover of Mrs. G.'s, she thought, that's turned up
unexpected. He's kinda forgotten about her, put her outa his life. But she's mad about him, all her heart's
old passion is revived. Better not say too much about these things to Nounou anyhow: she might let
Brady's man go too far.

"Come on, kid," she said, getting up from the table. "Give me a hand with this stuff. I gotta get this kitchen
clean, the madam will be coming in here afterwhile to cut sandwiches. We get this finished, we can hit the
hay."

Nounou smiled a little as she took the dish-towel.

"I'll help you clean up," she said. "Then I'm going to slip out a while longer."
                                                    XIII

Now it was dusk: dusk that takes away the sins of the world. Under that soft cone of shadow, wagged
like a dunce cap among the stars, are folly and glamour and despair; but no sin. The day was going back
to the pure darkness where all things began; to the nothing from which it had come; to the
unconsciousness that had surrounded it. The long, long day had orbed itself to a whole. Its plot and
scheme were perfect; its crises and suspenses artfully ordered; now darkness framed it and memory gave
it grace. Tented over by upward and downward light, mocked by tinsel colours and impossible desires,
another cunning microcosm was complete.

"I like your orchestra," said Joyce. They were all sitting on the veranda steps. From the garden and the
dunes beyond came the rattling tremolo of summer insect choirs.

No one spoke for a moment. Phyllis was enjoying a relaxation after the effort of the dinner table. It was
no longer necessary to think, every instant, of something to say. Darkness takes the place of
conversation. It replies to everything. Like fluid privacy the shadow rose and flowed restfully about them;
faces were exempt from scrutiny; eyes, those timid escapers from question, could look abroad at ease.
Reprieved from angers and anxieties, the mind yearned to come home under the roof of its little safe
identity. It had not forgotten the distractions that make life hard: quarrels, the income tax, unanswered
letters, toothache: but these hung for a moment, merely a pretty sparkle of fireflies. I feel as though I were
really Me, Phyllis thought. I wish there were someone to hold my hand.

I wonder if I do like it? Joyce thought as soon as she heard her own voice.

Come home, come home to yourself, cried the incessant voice of darkness. The soulless musicians of
earth fiddled with horrid ironic gusto. Nothing is true but desire, they wailed and wheedled. Now they
were fierce piccolo and pibroch; now they had the itinerant rhythm of bawdy limericks.

Special intensity of silence seemed to emanate from Ben and Ruth, who sat close together on the top
step. In the general pause theirs was like a hard core: it was not true silence but only repressed speech.
The smell of Ben's cigar floated among the group like an argument. It had a sensible, civilized,
matter-of-fact, downtown fragrance. It seemed to suggest that someone — even the crickets, perhaps
— should put down a proposition in black and white. Joyce had a feeling that Ben and Ruth were waiting
for any one to say anything; and that when it was said they would jointly subject it to careful businesslike
scrutiny. Contents noted, and in reply would say —

"Orchestra?" repeated Ben, in a puzzled voice.

"The crickets." (She tried not to make it sound like an explanation.) "I'd forgotten that nights on the Island
were like this."

Martin was sitting just below her. He had been playing with the pebbles on the path, picking them up and
dropping them. He turned and looked up at her.

"Like what?" he asked.

She had the same sensation of disbelief she had felt at the dinner table. One must be strangely innocent or
strangely reckless to ask questions like that. George's face shone in the flare of a match: he looked
emptily solemn and pensive as men always do while lighting a pipe. Joyce felt almost as though there
were a kind of conspiracy against her to make her take the lead in talking.

"They fiddle away as though it was the most important night that ever happened," she said, a little
nervously. "As though they think it's a First Night and the reviewers are here from the newspapers."

"It is the most important night that ever happened," said Phyllis slowly. "It's now." There was a queer
frightened tremble in her voice.

"There'll be a moon a little later," said George. He said it rather as though this would be creditable to him,
as host.

"No, George, don't let there be a moon. Not everything at once, it's too much."

Something in George's outline showed that he thought Phyllis was merely chaffing him; but Joyce was
more clairvoyant. For the first time she became aware of some reality in Phyllis: saw that she was more
than just George's wife. There was in her some buried treasure that no one had ever taken the trouble to
hunt for. Why, she's lovely, Joyce thought. In a sudden impulse she wanted to take Phyllis's hand; her
own fluttered liftingly in her lap; she restrained it, for she felt that she would want to kiss George before
very long and it didn't seem quite square to be in love with a man and his wife simultaneously. It would be
extravagant, she supposed sadly.

"We don't need a moon," she said, "with Mrs. Granville wearing that lovely silver dress."

"It makes me feel as though we ought to do something special," said Martin.

"We can have a game of Truth," suggested George.

No one showed much enthusiasm except Martin, who wanted to know how it was played.

"Everyone must tell some thought he has had but didn't say."

Ben and Ruth felt more certain than ever that the evening was going to be a failure.

"A thought you've had ever?" asked Martin.

"No, this evening."

"You suggested it, George; you can go first," said Ruth.

"Ruth evidently believes that unspoken thoughts are always terrible."

"They can't be much more terrible than some of the things that were said at dinner," Ruth retorted.

"In this game you don't get to the really interesting stuff until after several rounds, when people get
warmed up. I'll begin with a very small one. I was thinking that I mustn't forget to put away the car. —
Now Ruth, what's yours?"

"That Miss Clyde probably has a very becoming bathing suit."

"I was thinking I heard one of the children calling," said Phyllis. "But it wasn't, it was only a singing in my
nose."

"What a funny nose," said Martin.

"Don't you know how something seems to get caught in your nostril and makes a kind of singing when
you breathe?"

Ben had had time to make a careful choice of the least damning of his meditations. "I was thinking that the
crickets don't really sound like an orchestra. They're more like adding machines."

"Why, that's true," George exclaimed. "They have just that even, monotonous, cranking sound. Adding
up some impossible and monstrous total. Counting the stars, maybe."

"I hope you won't think my thought is rude," said Joyce. "It struck me that if it weren't for Mr. Brook's
cigar I'd be convinced this is all a dream. — I don't mean it isn't a nice cigar, just that it smells so
worldly."

"Well, our secret thoughts all seem fairly innocent. But we haven't heard yours yet, Mr. Martin."

"I don't think this is a very interesting game," said Martin.

George insisted. "Come, the guest of honour can't escape as easily as that. Out with it!"

"Do I have to?" Martin appealed to Phyllis. She came out of her reverie, aware that even darkness is
inadequate as a sedative. The threads of relationship among them all had tightened.

"I know what Mr. Martin's trouble is," said Ruth. "He says everything he thinks, so naturally he has
nothing left."

"Why, that's just it," Martin said. "How did you know? What would be the good of thinking things and
not saying them?"

"You're not playing fair," George objected. "No one would be crazy enough to say everything. Besides,
there wouldn't be time."

Martin was stubbornly silent.

"I agree with Mr. Martin," Phyllis said, "It's not a very cheerful game. If we didn't say our thoughts we
must have had some good reason for keeping them silent. Besides, I must speak to Lizzie about
breakfast."

"I'll take the car to the stable."

"Can I go with you?" Martin asked.

George had still cherished a forlorn hope that the world was large enough for him and Joyce to have a
few moments alone. For several days the stable had been sanctified in his anticipation. In the hayloft
above the old disused stalls there was a big doorway that opened toward the sea. That mustily fragrant
place was his favourite retreat when solitude seemed urgent. There, he had thought, he and Joyce could
talk. He had even put an old steamer rug on the hay so they might sit more comfortably. There would be
moonlight over the water.

"Is it the same stable where we used to play as kids?" cried Ruth. "Oh, let's all go. I want to see it again.
Why, that old haymow was the first place Ben ever kissed me."

"What did he do that for?" said Martin.

"Perhaps he'll do it again," said George bitterly. It was just like Ruth to ruin the stable for him.

"Well, I don't want to spoil any one else's plans," said Ben.

"We could play hide-and-seek in the hay," Martin suggested.
Now they were all piling into the car, to ride round the house to the stable. This was of a piece with the
absurdity of everything else, George thought. People were always driving up in crowds to visit his
secrets. Like sight-seeing busses loaded with excursionists. The world loves to trample over your private
ecstasies and leave them littered with scraps of paper and banana peel. And this fellow Martin, with his
cool mockery, was beginning to get on his nerves.

The engine leapt into life with the same eager alacrity as if they had been starting off for a long drive. Yes,
the human objective means nothing to the routine of Nature. She looses her lightning indifferently, whether
between the sooty termini of a spark plug or from charged cloud to earth. She squanders as much energy
in a meadow of hallooing crickets as in a human spirit tormented by conflicting passions.

They made the circuit of the house. Down the drive from the front door to the main road, along the side
of the house, then up the back lane by the kitchen and the circular bed of cannas. Only a hundred yards,
but it seemed interminable because it was futile and meaningless. Something had gone wrong in his time
sense. As the car passed the kitchen window he could see Phyllis talking to Lizzie, holding up a loaf of
bread as she spoke. At the same moment Ruth was saying something about the moon coming up. His
mind went off in a long curve. He felt a gush of anger at Phyllis because she had been so unaware of his
feeling for Joyce. If she had been spiteful, or jealous, or suspicious, how much easier it would have been.
Her pettiness would have driven him and Joyce blissfully into each other's arms, without the faintest sense
of remorse. But this strangely detached Phyllis who seemed to move in a dream, instead of the familiar
Phyllis of tempers and reproaches, was a different problem. Even sin, he thought furiously, is to be made
as difficult as possible for me. And I had always imagined it would be so easy. Will God ever forgive me
if I don't commit the sins I was intended to? God will get no praise from me, He's packed the house with
a claque of crickets to put the show over. Through the window Phyllis's golden head shone in a haze of
lamplight. As always, when angry at her he loved her most. When you love a woman, why make her life
miserable by marrying her? Marriage demands too much. . . .

From this speculation he came back to find Ruth just finishing her sentence, the car still opposite the
window, the loaf of bread still lifted in Phyllis's hand. It occurred to him that this evening was damnably
like the slowed motion-pictures in which the stream of life is retarded into its component gestures. Now
he was to have the embarrassment of witnessing the actual rhythm of living, the sluggish pattern that
underlies gay human ritual, the grave airy dancing of creation treading softly its dark measure to unheard,
undreamed music. The smallest alteration in the mind's pace changes everything, as some trifling misprint
turns a commonplace newspaper headline into obscenity.

They drove into the stable.

"I miss the nice old horsey smell," said Ruth. "Too bad, it's only a garage now."

"Which was it you wanted to revive, the horsey smell or the embraces of Ben?" said George. "The loft
hasn't changed much, I think."

He snapped on the light. While the others climbed the narrow little stair behind the old feed bins he filled
the radiator with water and poured oil into the crank case. Morosely he heard their words overhead.

"Someone's left a blanket up here."

"Look, the bay's all full of moonlight. I didn't remember it was like that."

"We were children then, we didn't know about the moon. We had to go to bed too early."

"The old swing's gone." (This was Mr. Martin's voice.)
"Why . . . how did you know? Yes, that's where it was, that beam. . . ."

I thought that lunatic had been here before, George said to himself. He seems to know his way about.

He started the motor again. He thought he had noticed a faint roughness in its turning. He listened
attentively, marvelling at the strong, hurrying fidelity of those airy explosions. I know why this car has
kept her youth, he thought. She hasn't had any proper care, but she's been loved. A soft throbby purring,
with a sweet quavering rhythm; the sound of sliding, of revolving, of vapour evenly expelled. It was a
consoling, normal kind of sound; complete in itself; it shut out the voices upstairs. A touch on the throttle
and it rose to a growl of unused power, a shout of fierce unquestioning assent, not much different from
defiance. The old barn rang. It was as if an officer of some colonial regiment called on his legions for a
fatal exploit, and heard in their answering yell a voice of savagery that might turn against himself.

He switched the key; the sound slid off into a soft conclusive sigh. There was an almost human breath of
frustration in it. He closed the hood, his mind too vague for thinking, and saw Joyce standing there.

"I thought Mr. and Mrs. Brook would like a moment of privacy," she whispered.

He had her in his arms. On her soft lips was all the bittersweet of their long separation, of their mirth
together, of their absurd and precious passion, denied by men and ratified by crickets. It was the perfect
embrace of those who are no longer children, who can sweeten the impossible by mocking it a little. The
tingling triumph of social farce, undreamed by poor candid Nature — the first illicit kiss!

"I suppose," she said tremulously, "that this really is what they call a Guilty Passion."

"My dear, my dear. What a queer world, where one has to apologize for loving people."

As though down a long avenue of distance he saw her in the perspective of her life: an exquisite gallant
figure going about her brave concerns: so small and resolute in her single struggle with the world, and
coming to his arms at last. He knew then that poets have not lied; that fairy tales are true; that life is
hunger, and for every emptiness caters its own just food. Her mind that he had loved was tangled up with
a body. Chastity was probably a much overrated virtue. For her sake, if she desired it, he was willing to
make the heroic effort which is necessary to yield to temptation.

He held her close, in silence. Austere resolutions slipped away like sand in an hour glass. For an instant
his only thought was a silly satisfaction that she must reach so far upward to meet his lips. His mind
taunted him for thinking this.

"Dear fool, dear damned fool," he said. "Yes, you're just as you should be: lips cool and eyelids warm.
And as soft as I always imagined. Oh, it's not fair that any one should be so soft. Joyce, do you know
why I had to have you here? It's just a year . . . you remember?"

"Yes. The day you were looking out of the window. How long it seems."

"We begin to feel like a nice old unmarried couple."

She laughed, her rare broken laugh.

"Oh, George, then it is really you. The Fourth you, I mean. I couldn't quite believe it."

Voices came down from the loft. First it was Martin:

. . . "That's what I like about her. She looks as if she's happy inside."
Then Ruth, with a scornful snicker:

"Happy? I dare say. Did you see the way she looked at George at the dinner table? That kind of
woman's always happy with someone else's husband."

There was an inaudible murmur, then Ben's voice:

"It's a form of nervousness."

Joyce drew back from his arms. Her eyes were dark with horror.

"Oh . . ." she said with a sob. "Why are people so . . . so inadequate."

Ruth's little sneer, falling on them like a crystal spirt of poison, burned George's bare heart.

"Joyce, dear Joyce . . ." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I must tell you, I must. I've waited so long.
Oh, it's so long since I've done anything I want to, I've forgotten how. Joyce, you don't know how I
needed you. I was hungry, I was a beggar, you fed me with laughter and taught me how to suffer. You
taught me how to love, yes, everything I love I love a thousand times better because I know you. God
help me, I love even Phyllis better because of you. . . ."

With a gesture of pathos and despair she buried her face in his coat. They heard the others beginning to
descend. To postpone for a few moments the necessity of speech, he turned wildly to the car and again
started the engine. As Ruth appeared at the foot of the stairs, her mouth opening to say something, he
speeded the motor to a roar.

"Oh, George," piped Ruth as they were walking back to the house. "I've left my scarf. I must have
dropped it in the loft. Ben'll get it. Have you locked the barn?"

"No, we don't lock anything around here."

"You laugh at locksmiths," said Joyce.

"I'll go," George said. "I can find it easier than Ben. There's a flashlight in the car."

He walked back to the stable. A lemonade-coloured moon was swimming above the maple tree. He did
not bother to get the torch but slipped up the stair, moving noiselessly on rubber soles. The scarf was
lying just at the top, where the steps emerged into the old harness room. He was about to glance into the
hayloft, to satisfy his sentimental vision of how it would have looked to him and Joyce, a cavern of
country fragrance, a musk of dead summers still banked there in pourried mounds. He was halted, with a
catch of breath, by murmuring voices. He peered round the doorpost. A slope of powdery moonlight
carved a pale alley through the heavy shadow. On his rug, spread toward the open window, sat Nounou
and Brady's man, ardently enlaced.

The whispering pair, engrossed in rudimentary endearment, were oblivious of all else. It amused him to
reflect that they must have been hiding anxiously somewhere in the loft while the visitors palavered near
them. A single cricket, embalmed in the hay, chirped sweet airy prosits — solitary lutanist (or
prothalamist) of the occasion. George stood smitten by the vulgar irony. There was cruel farce and
distemper in finding his own dear torment parodied in these terms of yokel dalliance. The parable was
only too plain. This back-yard amour was as rich in Nature's eyes as the kingliest smoke-room story of
the Old Testament. Nature, genial procuress, who impartially honours the breach and the observance.

With the crude humour of the small boy, never quite buried in any man, he emitted a loud groaning wail of
mimic anguish. He thrilled with malicious mirth to see the horrified swains leap up in panic. He tiptoed
stealthily away, leaving them aghast.

This has got to end, he said to himself.
                                                   XIV

If there were only one moonshiny night in each century, men would never be done talking of it. Old lying
books would be consulted; in padded club chairs grizzled gentry whose grandfathers had witnessed it
would prate of that milky pervasion that once diluted the unmixed absolute of night. And those who had
no vested gossip in the matter would proclaim it unlikely to recur, or impossible to have happened.

Mr. and Mrs. Brook and Martin had gone on toward the veranda. Joyce lingered where the edge of the
house's shadow was a black frontier on the grass. The lawn was a lake of pallor. Under the aquamarine
sky, glazed like the curly inmost of a shell, earth was not white or glittering, but a soft wash of argentine
grey. There was light enough to see how invisible the world truly is. The pure unpurposeful glamour
poured like dissolving spirit on the dull fogged obscure of ordinary evening: the cheap veneers of shadow
peeled away, true darkness was perceivable: the dark that threads like marrow in the bones of things: the
dark in which light is only an accidental tremble. Where trees and shrubs glowed in foamy tissue, hung
chinks and tinctures of appeasing nothing. This was abyss unqualified, darkness neat.

She was drowned at the bottom of this ocean of transparency. She felt as people look under water,
pressed out of shape, refracted, blurred by the pressure of an enormous depth of love. In such clean light
a thought, a memory, a desire, could put on shape and living, stare down the cautious masks of habit.
The trustiest senses could play traitor inside this bubble of pearly lustre; the hottest bonfires of mirth
would be only a flicker in this dim stainless peace. Better to go indoors, join the polite vaudeville of
evasion, escape the unbearable reality of this enchanted . . .

"Here you are!" said a voice. "Thank goodness. I want to ask you things. You're different."

It was Martin.

"What's the matter with all these people?" he exclaimed. "Why can't they have fun? Why do they keep on
telling me they love me? I don't want to be loved. You can't be happy when you're being loved all the
time. It's a nuisance. I want to build castles in the sand and play croquet and draw pictures. I want to go
to bed and get a good sleep for the Picnic; and that lady wants me to kiss her. I did it once; isn't that
enough?"

Here was a merriment: to expect her, at this particular junction of here and now, to join his deprecations.

"Quite enough," she said. "But it depends on the person. She may not think so."

"It's Mrs. Phyllis. I asked her if she was ready for me to go to bed, and she said I mustn't say such things.
What's the matter with her? I think she's angry. Everybody seems angry. Why is it?"

Her pulses were applauding her private thought: If Phyllis loves him, I can love George.

"And I saw Bunny in the garden. She says you're the only one who can help me because you almost
understand."

"Bunny! Bunny who? What do you mean? . . ."

He must be mad. Yet it seemed an intelligible kind of madness: some unrecognized but urgent meaning
sang inside it like a sweet old tune. In the misty moonlight she saw the great wheel of Time spinning so
fast that its dazzling spokes seemed to shift and rotate backward. But her mind still intoned its own
jubilee: If Phyllis loves him, I can love George. It's all right for me to love George. Be ye lift up, ye
everlasting doors!
"Bunny Richmond, of course. She's playing some kind of hide-and-seek round here. It's not fair."

"It is fair!" cried Bunny passionately. He could hear her calling to him from somewhere just round the
corner of the path. "Oh, Martin, Martin, can't you see? I can't tell you, you've got to find out for
yourself."

Bunny had cried out so eagerly that even Joyce almost heard her. She turned to look.

"What was that, someone whispering?"

"It's only Bunny," he said impatiently. "She's playing tricks on me. She wants me to go away."

Joyce had stepped out of the shadow, and now Martin partly saw.

"Why, I know who you are. Why . . . why, of course. They called you Miss Clyde, that fooled me.
You're not Miss Anybody, you're Joyce . . . the one who gave me the mouse. You don't love me too, do
you? People only love you when they want you to do things."

Bunny kept calling him, but he closed his ears to her.

"No, I don't love you," she said slowly. "I love George."

But she had to look at him again to be sure. He was very beautiful and perplexed. Perhaps she loved
everybody. For an instant she thought he was George; she could see now that there was a faint
resemblance between them. Then she noticed that George was there too. He had come along the path
from the stable. His face was sharpened with resolve. He paid no attention to Martin, but spoke directly
to her.

"Here's your scarf," he said, almost roughly, holding it out. Then he remembered it was not hers, and
thrust it in his pocket. He made an uncertain step toward her.

"Oh, we can't go on like this," he said harshly. "This has got to . . ." He made a queer awkward gesture
with his arms. She went to them.

"How funny you are," observed Martin from the shadow. "First you want to push her away and then you
hug her."

Apparently George did not hear him.

"Why did you wake me?" he was asking her. "Why couldn't I go on sleepwalking through life? If I had
never known you, how much anguish I'd have missed. Oh, my poor dear."

"You mustn't talk to her like that," said Martin. "This is Joyce, she thinks once is enough. She isn't like
Phyllis."

"Go away, Martin," called Bunny. "It's no use now."

George held her fiercely. His voice trembled on broken words of tenderness. His bewildered mind
craved the ease of words, a little peace, a little resting time. Must this glory of desire be carried for ever
secret in his heart?

"You'll hurt her," said Martin angrily.

This they had stumbled on, George's heart cried to him. It was none of their seeking. She belongs to who
can understand her, insisted the sweet sophistries of blood. Joyce leaned up to him, the dear backward
curve of woman yearning to the face of her dream.

"Don't you know me?" Martin appealed to her. "You gave me the mouse yesterday."

He was unheeded. They did not even know he was there.

"You're doing it too," he said to her bitterly, and went away.

"George, when did I give you a mouse?"

"A mouse? What are you talking about? You're going to give me something much better than a mouse.
Do you know what I said to you once in a dream? I said, the worst of my love for you is that it's so
carnal."

Her eyes met his, troubled but steady.

"And do you know what you answered?"

"No," she said pitifully. "Oh, George, George, I don't know about these things."

"You said, 'Perhaps that's what I like about it''."

She clung to him in a kind of terror.

"I don't know whether I said that. George . . . don't let's be like other people. Does it matter?"

They stood together and the crickets shouted, rattled tiny feet of approval on the floor of the dunes like a
galleiy of young Shelleys. The whole night was one immense rhythm; up the gully from the beach came a
slow vibration of surf. She was weak with the question in her blood, her knees felt empty. Perhaps that's
where your morality is kept, in the knees, she thought. She slipped her arms under his coat, round the
hard strong case of his ribs, to keep from tottering. The tobacco smell of his lapel was infinitely precious
and pathetic.

"How do I know what matters?" he whispered. "We can wait and see. If it's important, the time will
come. But I want you to know, my love for you is complete. It wants everything. Can't you hear the
whole world singing it? Everything, everything, everything."

"I don't like the crickets. They're trying to get us into trouble."

Everything is so queer this evening, she thought. How did all this happen? I'm frightened.

"We've always been different from other people," she said. "We're absurd and pitiful and impossible.
Don't let's spoil it, let's just be us."

His arms held her more gently. For love is beyond mere desire: it is utter tenderness and pity. Sing,
world, sing: here are your children caught in the chorus of that old, old music; here are Food and Hunger
that meet only to cancel and expire. Here, cries Nature in her deepest diapason, here are my bread and
wine. Too great to be accused of blasphemy, she shames not to borrow the words of man's noblest
fancy. Take, eat, she cries to the famished. This is my body which is given for you. Do this in
remembrance of me. And her children, conscious of lowly birth, can rise to denials her old easy breast
never dreamed.

"George," said Joyce quickly, "is any one watching . . . listening to us? I've had the strangest feeling. As
though someone was trying to tell me something, calling me."
"A singing in your nose, perhaps."

"No, but really."

"I've been trying to tell you something."

"Where did Mr. Martin go? Wasn't he there?"

"I didn't see him."

They turned toward the house. Its dark shadow hung over them, clear, impalpable, black as charcoal.
They felt purified by mutual confession and charity.

"I think it was the house listening to us," she said. "Why am I so happy?"

He knew that he loved her. It was not lust, for though he desired her and a thousand times had had her in
his heart, yet he shrank from possession, fearing it might satiate this passion that was so dear. So it was a
fool's love: perhaps a coward's, since to be taken is every woman's need. But who shall say? Life is a
foreign language: all men mispronounce it.

He loved her, for he saw the spirit of life in her. He loved her as a dream, as something he himself had
created, as someone who had helped to create part of him. He loved her because it was secret,
hopeless, impossible. He had loved her because he could not have her: and now she was here for his
arms. The Dipper and the wind in the pine trees said, Poor fool, if you want her, take her. The black flap
in the sky, where the starry pinning has fallen out (it opens into the law of gravity) said, It concerns only
yourselves, no one will know. The tide and the whistling sand dunes said, She's yours already.

From the sleeping porch over their heads he heard one of the children cough.

"George," she whispered, "I'll do whatever you tell me."

He turned to her. "I'd like to see any one laugh at locksmiths."
                                                      XV

They were entrenched in a little fortress of light. The tall silk-shaded lamp made the living hall an orange
glow, an argument against silver chaos veined with brute nothing. The clock, the clock, the clock,
measured itself against the infidel crickets. Phyllis, in a corner of the big sofa, was in the centre of that
protecting glitter. She was panoplied in light: it poured upon the curve of her nape, sparkled in the bronze
crisp of her hair, brimmed over the soft bend of her neck and ran deep down into the valley of her
bosom. It rippled in scarps and crumples of her shining dress, struck in through the gauzy chiffon, lay in
flakes on the underskirt, gilded the long slope of her stockings like the colour of dawn on snow. She
could feel it, warm and defiant, wrapping her close, holding her together. Even her bright body, in such
fragile garb, was hardly dark.

But the reality was still that pale emptiness outside. Where she sat she could see, beyond the dining room
and the high rectangle of French windows, a pure shimmer of white night. Down the broad open well of
the stair the same tender void came drifting, floating, sinking. Summer night cannot be shut out: it is
heavier than thin lamp-shine, it spreads along the floor, gathers beneath chairs, crowds up behind
pictures, makes treacherous friendship with the gallant little red-headed bulbs.

She felt soft and ill. She felt her pliant body settling deeper into the thick cushion, her hands weighing inert
upon her lap. She wished Ben and Ruth could be restful for a moment. Ruth was flitting about, looking at
the furniture; Ben, though sitting quietly, kept blowing cigar smoke in a kind of rhythmical indignation. She
could see his mind toiling, so plainly that she would not have been surprised to read words written in his
spouts of smoke, as in the balloon issuing from the mouth of a comic drawing. If Mr. Martin would only
say something. He had just come in from the garden, without a word, and sat expectantly at the foot of
the stairs. He was outside the circle of light, she could not see him clearly, but he seemed to be looking at
her with inquiry or reproach. For being such a dull hostess, probably.

But speech was impossible. Now, with eyes widened by terror and yearning, she was almost aware of
the sleepy world that lies beneath the mind's restless flit: the slow cruel world, without conscience, that
the artist never quite forgets. In the glare of the lamp the room burned with subordinate life: the grainy
wood of the furniture, the nap of the rug, the weave of the sofa, were fibred with obstinate essence.
Being was in them as in her, went on and on. It seemed as though one sudden push, if it could be made,
might break through the fog of daily bickerings and foresights and adjustments, into that radiant
untroubled calm. But conscious life tends to take the level of the lowest present: with Ruth and Ben and
even the house itself steadfast against her, how could she speak out? The darkness that, outdoors, had
been sweet privacy, was here obverted into secrecy: secrecy lay under the chairs, behind the doors,
between the ticks of the clock. She had settled this room, only a few hours before, with so much care —
dusting, arranging; everything in its accustomed pose. Now it was too strong for her, and every pattern in
it ran with shouts of taunting laughter. . . . It was just like George to linger in the garden, leaving her alone
to "entertain" these guests.

Then she was aware that someone had spoken. She had not caught the words, but the sound poised in
her mind. It was a pleasant sound, it must have been Mr. Martin. Perhaps she would go through all the
rest of her life without knowing what he had said. Yet it might have been a cry for help. You never know,
she thought, when people may leave off pretending and lay their heads on your breast. What a silly way
to put it: lay their head — his head — on your breasts; because you have only one head and two breasts.
Perhaps that's why the insects make such an uproar, shrilling sour grapes. They're jealous because they're
not mammals. . . .

"He went back to the stable to get my scarf."
"I hope they won't catch cold," said Phyllis. "It's so much cooler tonight."

"You oughtn't to kiss people when you have a cold," said Martin.

This, Phyllis supposed, was a little reckless aside for her alone. She felt a bright seed of anger in her; it
was sprouting, climbing up the trellis of her nerves. She had a fine fertility for anger; her mind was shallow
soil as its bottom had never been spaded: such seeds could not root deeply and slowly, so they shot
upward in brilliant quick-withering flower. The rising warmth medicined her empty sickness. He was
cruel, but she loved him for it and could have prostrated herself at his feet. What right had he to be so
untouched, so happy and certain and sure? His mind was one, not broken up into competing yearnings.

"Competition is the life of trade," she said.

Looking up, she wondered if she had said something accidentally witty. From the other side of the room
Ruth was regarding her strangely. Beyond Ruth, black against the blanched evening, were George and
Joyce on the veranda steps. . . . Oh, so that was what Martin had meant?

Ben's face was so perplexed and bored, she took pity on him.

"What would you people like to do? Play cards? We can't dance, there isn't any music."

Ruth was quite content not to dance; she suspected she would have had to take Ben as a partner. "Ben's
favourite game is Twenty Questions," she said.

"Gracious, I haven't played that in ages. It'll be rather fun. Here come the others, let's do it."

George seemed almost like a stranger, Phyllis thought. She had an impish desire to ask to be introduced.
It amused her to think that any one should want to kiss him.

"What a gorgeous night." He spoke loudly, rather as if someone might contradict. "Here's your scarf," he
added, almost roughly, holding it out to Joyce. Then he remembered, and gave it to Ruth.

"How funny you are," said Martin. "You made the same mistake again."

"Thank you so much," Ruth said. "I'm sorry you had such a long hunt for it."

Joyce crossed the room in silence. Ruth's eyes followed her, and it was in Ruth's face that Phyllis first
saw Joyce was beautiful. She brought some of the moonlight with her. No man can ever admire a
woman's loveliness as justly as another woman, for he rarely understands how her fluctuating charm
depends on the hazard of the instant. Something had happened to make Joyce beautiful, and Phyllis was
surprised by an immense compassion. This creature too was lonely, had her bewildered tumult in the
blood, was defenceless and doomed. Ruth's watchful eyes, unseen by Joyce, were asking her whether
she had anything to say for herself, anything that could be used against her. And Ruth (Phyllis could see)
was as outraged by Joyce mute as she would have been at anything she said.

Joyce was helpless: helpless, because she was happy; helpless, for she had brought no words with her.
She had brought only moonlight and it was declared contraband. In the instant that the girl hesitated in the
choice of a seat, Phyllis knew that she could have loved her, they could have come together in a miracle
of understanding, but Ruth had made it impossible. Ruth, the comely fidget, who would never know the
stroke of any grievance greater than her own jealous mischiefs. What could Ruth know of the great
purifying passions, who had always forestalled them by yielding to the pettiest? The seedling anger in
Phyllis's heart, sensitively questing an object, swayed outward as a young vine leans toward sun. She
would not think of the Brooks again as Ben and Ruth. They were Ruth and Ben. She knew now why Ben
peeped so warily from behind a rampart of sedentary filing cabinets. His soul lurked behind the greatest
of hiding places, a huge office building.

With a swift impulse she reached out, beckoning to a place beside her on the sofa. Joyce's hand was
cold and seemed surprised. The two hands, like casual acquaintances meeting by accident, lingered
together wondering how to escape politely. Phyllis realized it was not a success. She leaned forward to
speak brightly to George, so that her fingers might seem to slip free unawares.

"We're going to play Twenty Questions."

"Fine!" said George. This, he thought, would prevent general conversation, the one thing most to be
feared.

"Ben, you go out," Phyllis suggested. Ben deserved some amusement, he had been rather patient in the
middle of this silent turmoil.

"Let Ruth," said Ben. "She's clever at guessing things."

"No, Ben, you," Ruth said definitely. She was having too good a time guessing as she was.

From the sofa Joyce could see into the little dark sitting room — her room: her only retreat. It drew her
strongly. The frame of the window opened into moonlight and a queer twist of shadows. If only she could
go in there, get away. Here, under the lamp, everything was too full of dangerous artifice. The light held
everything together tightly, in a bursting tension. No one could say anything for fear it would have a
double meaning. One meaning at a time was burden enough.

Was there anything queer about that little room? Mr. Martin, sitting at the bottom of the stairs, was close
to the door: he was looking there too. In the back of her mind she remembered that she had started to
say something to him in the garden; or he to her, she was not certain which; but something had been left
unfinished. George was watching her, watching her; she could feel it, and needed to escape into herself.
How could she escape? He knew all about her now, she found him round the remotest corners of her
mind. No, no, there were lovely things about her that he did not guess. If she could be alone for a few
minutes she could find out what they were. . . . So this was love, this dreadful weakness. It ought to be
so easy; free and easy, that gay old phrase; and the taut web of human nerves frustrated it. Beside her, in
a glitter of light, Phyllis shone mysteriously. The touch of that warm hand had shocked Joyce. She knew
now that they could never be at peace together.

"I'll go," she said suddenly.

Phyllis, still leaning forward, was listening.

"Was that one of the children?"

As Joyce rose, getting up with difficulty from the deep settee, Martin closed the sitting-room door with a
quick push. Why did he do that? Now it would seem rude to go in there. George, whose ear was
cocked toward upstairs, looked angrily at him.

"I didn't hear anything. You've got the children on the brain, Phyl." "

"I'll go on the veranda while you think of something," Joyce said.

It was amusing to see how eagerly they all turned to the old almost forgotten pastime. She heard them
mumbling together while they concerted their choice. They were like savages at a campfire, rehearsing
some cheerful ceremonial to dispel sorcery. The bare mahogany of the dining table was glossed with
panels of dim colour. This led her eyes upward to the red and blue window. It reminded her distantly of
some poem, some perfect enchantment that mocked the poor futility of her own obsession. That most
magic outcry of unreflecting love, from the most wretched of lovers: the eternal collision between life as
dreamed and life as encountered.

There was a burst of laughter.

"She'll never guess that," she heard Ruth saying.

"All ready," George called.

"There are five of us, you can go round four times. You must ask questions that can be answered by Yes
or No."

She began in the traditional way.

"Is it animal?"

"No," said Ruth.

"Is it vegetable?"

"Yes," said Phyllis.

"Is it in this room?"

"Yes," said Ben.

The part of her that was asking questions seemed separate from her racing undertow of feeling. She was
the frightened child who was shy about games because she was always playing and watching
simultaneously. What should she ask? It was vegetable and in the room. She had a preposterous
eagerness to say something wildly absurd, she was weary of telling lies. If it had been Animal, she might
have said "Is it George's love for me?" Their faces would have been comic. But it was Vegetable. . . . My
vegetable love shall grow Vaster than empires and more slow . . .' but if I quote that it will have to be
explained. Why do poems insist on coming into the mind at instants of trouble?

"Is it Mr. Brook's cigar?"

"No," said George.

"Is it associated with some person in this room?"

"Yes," said Martin. A little self-consciously, she thought.

"Look here," George interrupted. "That answer of Phyl's wasn't quite right. Is it fair to say it's vegetable?"

"It was vegetable, vegetable in origin," Phyllis protested.

"Yes, but in a way it's animal too. It's becoming animal."

"Is it — any one's affection for any one else?" Joyce demanded promptly.

"No," said Ruth, amid general laughter.

"The difficulty with this game," said Phyllis, "is that there are so many questions you can't answer just Yes
or No."
"That's why it's a good game," said George. "It's like life."

Joyce tried to recapitulate. It was in this room, associated with a person, it was vegetable in origin but
becoming animal . . . but how absurd.

Perhaps they mean becoming to an animal, she thought.

"Is it Mrs. Granville's silver dress?"

"No."

"Is it anything to wear?"

"No."

"Is it associated with a man or a woman?'"

"I can't answer that Yes or No," said George.

"Well, with a man?"

"Yes."

"Is it something I can see now?" she asked, looking directly at him.

"You're asking him twice," Martin said. "It's my turn."

Why did her mind keep straying away? Standing in the middle of the circle, she could feel them
surrounding her, desiring her to divine this thing. Perhaps it was something she didn't want to guess,
something that would mean —

She repeated the question, looking at Martin this time.

"No," he said, smiling.

Her mind was a blank. She went round the group again, asking almost at random. The succession of
No's had a curiously numbing effect. But she knew, without having put the question directly, that it was
something connected with Martin.

She came to Ben, on the last time round. She stared at his white canvas shoes, trying to think.

"Is it . . . is it — "

She turned away from the strong scent of his cigar. The glimmer of coloured light on the dining-room
table caught and held her. It suggested:

"Something to do with a cake?"

"Yes," said Ben, amazed.

They were all startled, for her last attempts had been far off the track.

"Two more tries," said George, encouraging her.

She had a queer sensation that the back of her dress was open and reached unconsciously to button it.
How silly, of course it's not open, it fastens on the shoulder, . . . A cake, a cake . . . there was a warm
whiff of burning candles in the room. She knew now what it must be; what he had begun to tell her in the
garden. . . . They were all crowding round her, tall people, voices coming down from above, wanting her
to explain. Two more questions . . . one would do! Martin was standing behind George, he looked eager
and yet anxious. She remembered now: the mouse, the mouse she had brought him; it was such a little
thing; chosen and cherished for her difficult own; and the joy of giving away what was dearest . . . joy
embittered by hostile scrutiny. . . .

Everything was all tangled up together. What had she given, a mouse to Martin or her truth to George?
Oh, the pride, the fierce pride of now telling her pitiable secret. She could see the stripy pattern of
George's coat, she knew exactly how it smelled. George looked eager and yet anxious —

No, George, no! her mind was crying miserably. It wasn't you, it wasn't you; I gave it to him —

She must not tell them that she had guessed it. George must be spared this last inconceivable edge of
irony; and Martin must go away before either of them found out.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't get it."

George caught her arm as she swayed.

"I don't feel very well. Please forgive me. I think I'll go to bed."

"I knew she wouldn't guess it," said Ruth.

"Of course it wasn't really fair," said George. "She couldn't possibly know about the slice of cake Mr.
Martin had. But it was queer how close she came."
                                                    XVI

George stood uneasily on the landing, halfway up the stair. The house seemed over-populated. Upstairs
was a regular dormitory, he thought angrily; all down the long passage he could hear the stealthy
movement of people going to bed: doors opening cautiously, reconnoiterings to see whether the
bathroom trail was clear. And the ground floor was worse: Joyce in the sitting room filled the whole place
with her presence. He could not stay in the hall, the dining room, or the porch, without being in sight or
hearing of her sanctuary. Against his will he lingered on the thought of her there, the small ugly chamber
transfigured by her intimacy. Even the dull brown wood of the door was different now, it thrilled him with
unbearable meaning, his mind pierced through it and saw her loveliness — perhaps tormented like himself
with farcical horrors. It was unbearable to think of her going away into the dark nothing of these empty
hours, uncomforted. Why couldn't he go and tuck her in like one of the children? She seemed to him just
that, a frightened child who had somehow crept into his arms. She was there, divided from him only by
that senseless panel. He imagined her prostrate on the couch in a quiver of silent tears; she, exquisite,
made for delight, whose pitiful reality had shaken his solid, well-carpentered life into this crazy totter.

My God, he reflected, I thought I had got beyond this sort of thing.

There was a creak at the stair head; he saw her above him, shadowy against the bay window. In her
translucent wrap she was delicately sketched in cloudy brightness, young and firm of outline. So the door
had been mocking him. With a twinge of self-disgust he shrank, stumbled down the stairs, tiptoed out and
took refuge at the far end of the garden.

A splinter of light drew him to the table under the pine trees. The jug and glasses, left there since lunch
time; mutely pathetic, as forgotten things always are. There was still a heeltap of tea in one of the
tumblers, he drank it and found it sirupy with sugar. It's a mistake, he thought, to eat sweet things late at
night: they turn to sour in the morning. Night is the time for something bitter.

In the house, yellow squares flashed on and off. Downstairs, he could see Joyce's shadow against the
blind. At the other end of the building, in the gable, the spare-room window went dark. Martin had
slipped off to bed rather oddly after their game. In the embarrassment of Joyce's momentary dizziness he
had simply gone, without a word. George found himself thinking that much of the evening's difficulty was
due to this bumpkin stranger. He was probably well-meaning, but either with his idiotic pleasantries or a
silent smirk of censure he had a gift for blighting things. There was nothing about him that you could put
precise finger on, but he had a way of making one feel guilty. How queerly, too, he had looked at Joyce.

The evening was changing. The air had shifted toward the northwest; suddenly, over the comb of the
overhanging dune, a silvery spinnaker of cloud came drifting. It was like a great puff of steam, so close
and silent it frightened him. For an instant, passing under the moon, this lovely island of softness darkened
the night to a foggy grey. It was something strange, a secret between himself and the weather,
encouraging his silly wits not to be afraid of the desperate magic of fancy, the fear and tenderness hidden
in men's hearts.

He turned again toward the house, and saw that now Joyce's window was black. She was there, at rest;
he blessed her being in that little room. He had thought of it only as opening into the main thoroughfare of
the house; but it was open, too, into the garden and freedom. What did the door matter! She was there,
shining. He could speak to her. He imagined her voice, her trembling husky whisper, when she heard him
at the sill. Why is kindness always whispered, while anger is so loud? How delightful if people shouted "I
love you!" as though it were an insult. Glorious, to stand under the window and halloo it at her, watch the
house rouse with scandalized life! Ah, what friends we might have been if they hadn't made us whisper.
Why did they force us to be lovers?
Then he remembered — the accurate circumstantial memory of the householder. The window was
screened. To speak to her through a wire mesh — intolerable. Besides, it might only make matters
worse. He could never tell her his own joy, and might merely smirch hers. They might only struggle
dumbly in the grotesque antic of spirits whose moods cannot mingle. The moment had passed. Life had
gone by him, while he was fretting over paltry trifles, and left him a drudge. There was nothing to do but
go indoors and work on the booklet. How exciting that brochure would be, what marvellous advertising,
if he could really tell what summer was like at the Island. Why, the company would have to run special
trains. The very aisles would be packed, people sitting on up-ended suitcases, if they knew that this
dangerous coast was the place where Temptation really broke through . . . where the old Demiurge laid
his cards on the table. It would become a Resort — yes, an asylum for lunatics, people ridiculed by
transfusions of the moon. How a poet might write it, telling the colour of that world. Warm tawny flanks
of sand hills, sprawled like panthers. The sun a coal of topaz, veiled in white flame that sheeted the whole
summit of sky. Light so fierce one never looked upward. Wherever one turned was a burning and a
glitter; the air was a lens and gathered all its rays into one stream. Always one's knuckles were sweet
with salty smell. Repressed thunder yawning in the blue elixir of the afternoon: deep, deep afternoon,
penetrated with lawless beauty. The small sorry whisper of the wind sang it in the keen scimitar grasses;
smooth beams of driftwood, faded by the sea, felt it; the sandpipers, drunk with it, staggered on twiggy
legs. Bronzed thighs and shoulders, shining in the green shallows marbled with foam. . . .

The transitive billow of cloud slipped away beyond the roof; again the strong resinous air was clarified,
streamed with gracious light. His mind almost smiled at his fatuity: the sentiment did not graduate into an
actual smile, but spent itself in a tiny whiff of self-deprecation through his nostrils. He stretched upward,
raising his arms, standing tiptoed, feeling the calf-tendons tighten and coolness in his fingers as the blood
sank. His hands met a low limb that reached across his head. He gripped it and chinned himself. There
was good animal satisfaction in feeling the quiver in the biceps, the hanging weight of his body. Well,
we're not done for yet, he said to himself. No sir, not yet. He capered a few dance steps on the silky
floor of needles, and pulled out his pipe. . . .

She was coming. He saw her coming, swiftly across the lawn. No, not swiftly; evenly was the word;
unquestioningly; as he had always known she would come. His mouth was open to warn her of the
croquet hoops, but she passed surely among them. When he saw her face, he knew this was something
not to be spoiled by words. Her face was enough.

In that unreasonable glamour she was pure fable: the marble (Oh, too cold, too hard a word) come to
life. There was no pang, no trouble, no desire; he knew only that there is some answer to the gorgeous
secret: the secret that the world is in conspiracy to deny — No, not to deny; more cunning than that: to
admit and pass heedless on. There was meaning in everything; significance in the shapes of things. The
black plumes and pinnacles of the trees were fashioned exactly so could never have been otherwise.

They were away from rooms and roofs. They were on the beach; the tide was far ebbed, they ran over
mirrors of sand, they were in sparkling black water milder than air. Still there were no words; their white
bodies gleamed in silver, laved in snowy fans of surf. They were just themselves, chafing impediments
were gone; nothing was between them and they wanted nothing. They ran, breathing warmly, to burrow
in the powdery cliff, where the acid smell of sharp grasses sifted down from the dunes. They lay in a
hollow of sand; she curled against him, nestled smoothly close, he could feel her thrilling with small
quivers of joy. There was no pang, no trouble, no desire; only peace.

Everything else they had ever known had been only an interruption. This had always been happening,
underneath. It was the unknown music for which their poem had been written. They were quit of the
pinch of Time, the facetious nudge of Custom. Quietness was in them, satient like fresh water in a thirsty
throat. Here was the fulfilment men plot and swink for: and how different from crude anticipation. What
could there be now but pity and kindness? Here was triumph: Man, the experimenting artist, had created
fantasy above the grasp of his audience, Nature. Like any true artist, he must always play a little above
his audience's head.

"Now I'm going to tell you the truth," he said happily, and waited a moment for the luxury of her voice.

She was silent. He turned to look; her face was anxious.

"Why is it," he said gently, "that when you announce you're going to tell the truth, people always expect
something disagreeable?"

Then he knew that the sand was chill and gritty. A breeze was blowing, the light was dim and meagre.
This was not the glad forgiving sun but the cold and glassy moon.

"No, no!" she cried. "You must never tell the truth in a dream. If you do . . . it happens."

"But this was a lovely truth," he began. A window snapped into brightness beside him, just above his
head. Phyllis was looking from the pantry.

"George! What on earth are you muttering about out there? Come in and help me cut sandwiches."
                                                       XVII

He was startled to find Phyllis at work in her nightgown. Another hallucination, perhaps, he thought
sardonically. Everything seems to burlesque everything else.

She had thrown aside her blue quilted wrapper and was busy slicing and spreading. The table was
crowded with bread, ham, beef, lettuce, mustard, jam, and cheese. The Picnic. George had forgotten the
menace of the Picnic. It struck him as pathetic to see her valiantly preparing the details of this festival
which was already doomed and damned. She was chopping off little brown corners of crust. Wasteful,
as usual; besides, the crust is the best part. He managed not to say so, remembering that he had made the
remark every time he had ever seen her cut sandwiches. The lace yoke at her neck had two tiny buds of
blue ribbon stitched in it. There was something pitiably nuptial about them. How soft and young she was
in her flimsy robe. Her eyes were smudged with fatigue. How beautiful she would have looked to any
other man.

"My dear child, cutting sandwiches in your best nightgown."

"1 haven't anything better to do in it, have I?"

"Yes, you have. Go to bed in it." He held the wrapper for her.

"Put this on. I'll open the door. Whew, it's hot in here. I'll finish all this for you."

The blade of the long carving knife continued, small definite crunches.

"You can have your sardines. I found a box in the pantry. There isn't any key for them, you'll have to use
the can opener."

The warm kitchen air was like a stupor. This was the steady heart of the house. Ghostly moonlight might
wash up to the sill, fragile fancies pervade other rooms: here strong central life went calmly on. In the
range red coals slept deep, covered and nourished for the long night. The tall boiler, its silvery paint
flaked and dulled, gave off drowsy heat. Under the table the cat Virginia, who was not to be shocked,
lay solidly upright with her paws tucked in, sated with scraps and vibrating a strong stupid purr. The high
grimed ceiling was speckled with motionless flies, roosting there after a hard day. Packages of groceries,
series of yellow bowls and platters, were ranged on the shelves in comfortables order. This was not a
modern kitchen, shiny, white and sterile, like a hospital. It was old, ugly, inconvenient, strong with the
memory of meals arduously prepared; meals of long ago, for people now vanished.

"The weather's changing," he said. "I don't know if tomorrow will be fine or not."

He wondered at himself: able to speak so lightly, as if everything was usual. His mind was still trudging
back, up clogging sand hills, from a phantom bend of shore.

"If it rains, we'll have our sandwiches at home. I've promised Lizzie the day off."

He saw a quick horrible picture of the Picnic spread in the dining room, rain driving outside, the children
peevish, themselves angrily mute.

"There's cold chicken in the ice box; please get it out and slice it for salad sandwiches. I don't think Mr.
Martin cares much for beef, I noticed at lunch."

"What does he think he is? Some kind of Messiah? If he doesn't like our ways, what did he come butting
in for?"
He checked himself. The moment was ripe for quarrel, the gross mustard-sharpened air seemed to
suggest it. He put the carcass of fowl on the scrubbed drain board by the sink and began to carve.
Standing so, his back was toward her. He made some pretext to turn, hoping to divine her mood; but her
face was averted. There was ominous restraint in the shape of her back. The anticlimax of all this, the
delicatessen-shop smell, after his ecstasy in the garden, fretted his nerves. Brutal shouts of wrath
clamoured in his mind. It was infuriating to see her so appealing: can't one ever get away from it, must a
man love even his wife? He wanted to ask her this, but feared she would miss the humour of it. He
longed to horrify her with his rage, so that he could get rid of it and then show the tenderness he secretly
felt. Certainly I'm the colossus of sentimentalists, he thought. I can turn directly from one kind of love to
another. Queer, the way it looks now it's my feeling for Joyce that is disinterested and pure, my love for
Phyl that's really carnal. How did this morality business get so mixed up?

He amused himself by putting the slivers of chicken in two piles: the dark meat for Martin, the white for
Joyce. How white she had been in the surf. . . . But that was only a dream. This is real, this is earnest.
This is Now, I'm cutting sandwiches for the Picnic. This is what Time is doing to me; what is it doing to
her? How did our two Times get all knotted up together? He found himself affectionately stroking a
smooth slice of chicken breast.

There was something in Phyllis's silence that pricked him. He looked uneasily over his shoulder. She had
sat down in the chair by the table, her chin leaning on one wrist, watching him. He went to her and
touched her shoulder gently.

"Go to bed, Phyl dear."

"George, can't we get away from this house?"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Get away. Take me away, George; we'll take the children and go. Tonight. Before anybody wakes up."

She rose suddenly.

"I'm frightened. Take me away. George, I can't live through tomorrow, not if it's like today."

Just the way I feel, he thought.

"There, there, little frog, you're all frazzled out. It'll be all right, don't worry. Go and get your sleep."

"No, I'm not tired. I wish I were. I'm all burning up with not being tired. George, we could take the
babies and just get in the car and go. Go anywhere, anywhere where there isn't anybody.We'll take Miss
Clyde with us if you like. She's frightened too."

"Don't be absurd."

"George, it would be such fun; when they all came down to breakfast, Ben and Ruth and Mr. Martin, we
just wouldn't be here. Never come back, never see this place again."

"You're raving, Phyl. Why, I took this house specially for you. Besides, you know I can't go away now,
I've got this booklet to finish."

She looked so miserable, so desperate, his anger began to throb.

"You can write a booklet about something else. You know you can, they're all crazy to get your stuff.
George, you're so big and clever, you can do anything. Miss Clyde can illustrate it. I don't mind your
loving her, I'll be sensible, just take us away before the Picnic. Go and wake her now, she can go in her
wrapper, you'll like that."

"Damnation," he burst out, "don't talk such tripe. I believe you're crazy. It's this half-wit Martin who's got
on your nerves. I've got a mind to wake him up, throw him out of the house. What the devil did you ask
him in for?"

"It's my fault. But he's changed so, since this morning. We've all changed. We're not the same people we
were."

She pushed her arms up inside the sleeves of his coat and caught his elbows. He remembered that
cherished way of hers, unconscious appeal to old tendernesses. He looked down on the top of her head,
into the warm hollow where his head had lain. Her neck's prettier than Joyce's, he thought bitterly.

"It's queer you should hate him so," she said.

"What do you mean?" He pulled his arms away.

"Oh, I don't know what I mean. Perhaps he — perhaps he is what you said."

"What, a half-wit?"

"A kind of Messiah. They come to make silly people unhappy, don't they?"

He looked at her in cold amazement and disgust. Only a few moments ago he had been afraid of her; but
now, by showing her poor thoughts, she had put herself at his mercy.

"You go to bed," he said. "I'm sick of this nonsense." He gripped her shoulders roughly and pushed her
towards the door.

"Please, just let me put away the sandwiches. I want to wrap them in wet napkins so they'll keep fresh."

"Forget the damn sandwiches."

"Not damn, ham sandwiches." She couldn't help laughing. It was so paltry to have him propelling her like
a punishable child.

"Ham, jam, or damn, forget them!" he cried, raging. "You and your Messiah have ruined this Picnic
anyhow. You spoiled it because you knew I looked forward to it. You've plotted against it, sneered at
me and at Joyce because you knew I admired her."

"Admired her! Oh, is that the word?"

The little sarcasm hummed like a tuning fork in some silent chamber of his mind.

"You fool," he said. "Are you trying to push her into my arms?"

"I guess she can find the way without pushing."

"Well, you are a fool," he said slowly, in a dull voice that struck her deeper than any temper could have
done. "You throw away love as if it was breadcrusts."

With a furious sweep he was about to hurl the neat piles of her handiwork on the floor. In one last
salvage of decency he altered the course of his hand. He seized a fistful of the little brown strips of crust
and flung them wildly across the room. The carving knife clattered off the table.
"You're frightening Virginia," was all she said.

Anger, the red and yellow clown, burst through the tight paper hoop of his mind and played grotesque
unlaughable capers. Bewildered by his own ferocity he strode to the corner, swung open the door of the
back stairs, and pointed savagely upward. She went without another word. Her blue eyes were very
large and dark, they faced him with the unwavering defiance he detested and admired. Good old Phyl, he
couldn't help thinking. She's unbeatable. Now, as usual, he had put himself in the wrong. He crashed the
door behind her, and stood listening to her slow steps.

He soothed the cat with some sardine-tails, finished making the chicken sandwiches, wrapped them
carefully as Phyllis had suggested. I wonder what we'll be thinking when we eat them? As he put them
away in the ice box he noticed the cocoanut cake on a shelf. With a sense of retaliation he cut himself a
thick slice. He became aware of the scrambling tick of the alarm clock on the dresser. A quarter past
eleven. The house was thrillingly still. The serenely dormant kitchen slowly sobered the buffoon dancing in
his brain.

He fetched his precious bottle of Sherwood and poured a minim dose. The golden drug saluted him
gently. In this fluid too the flagrant miracle lay hidden, the privy atom of truth and fury. The guest of
honour, he thought ironically, feeling his vitals play host to that courteous warmth. The guest of honour,
always expelled. A spark falls into your soul. Shall you cherish it, shelter it to clear consuming flame; or
shall you hurry to stamp it out? Can a man take a fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned? The
smell of burning cloth is mighty disagreeable. Vacantly he studied the label on the bottle. Manufactured
prior to Jan. 17, 1920. These spirits were tax paid at the non-beverage rate for medicinal
purposes only. Sale or use for other purposes will subject the seller or user to very heavy
penalties. Well, certainly this is a Medicinal Use, he thought. "If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me."
Where did the phrase come from? . . . Yes, old Billy Bones, in Treasure Island.

Well, these foolishnesses would have blown over by tomorrow. Do a little work on the booklet and then
turn in. He must get the thing done, earn some money. The gruesome burden of expenses. How little
Phyllis realizes the load a man's mind carries. I suppose she carries one too, poor child. Every mind
carries the weight of the whole world.

He was on hands and knees, picking up the scraps of crust that had fallen under the boiler. In a luxurious
self-pity he found himself humming a hymn tune. Blessed solitude, where a man can sing to himself and
admire the sweet sorrow of his own cadence! An almost forgotten poem came into his head and fitted
pleasantly to the air.

The Silver Girl she came to me when spring was dancing green,
She said, "I've come to wait on you and keep your cabin clean;
To wash your face and hands and feet, and make your forehead cool —
I'll get you into Heaven yet, you Damned Old Fool!

Something in this appealed nicely to his mood. He allowed himself an encore. His voice, rising behind the
stove, got a good resonance. Then he heard a footfall, a door opening. Ah, he thought, Phyl has come
down to say she's sorry for being so crude. Well, I'll let her speak first. I'm tired of always being the one
to make advances.

He waited, industriously gathering crusts, though he felt that the posture of Lazarus was not
advantageous. There was no word.

"Well," he said impatiently, "have you had enough of your funny business?"
He turned, and saw Nounou's amazed face in the aperture of the back door. With an incoherent murmur
he rose, took his bottle, and stalked out of the kitchen.
                                                   XVIII

"It would be interesting to speculate," said page 38 of George's treatise, "how such a cheery little town
obtained the name Dark Harbour. Perhaps it was due to the scenic background of rugged hills that
overlooks the picturesque old fishing port and reflects its invigorating pine woods in the water. At any
rate, the future of the place is bright indeed. The Eastern Railroad's express service now stops there, and
large metropolitan interests have pledged themselves to the erection of a modern caravansary which will
supplement the long famous 'folksy' hospitality of the Bayview Hotel. Separated only by a lengthy trestle
from the mainland, the Island spreads its varied allure of rolling sand dunes, pine groves, and broad
shallow beaches. Shaped like a crescent, its outward curve is buffeted by the mighty ocean; on the inner
side, sheltered from easterly gales by the unique sand hills, is the comfortable cottage colony where a
number of wise people have been vacationing for many years. Many artists have discovered the pictorial
charm of the region, and find in the forests or in the maritime life of the Bay subjects for their water
colours and oils. Canvases that have later become famous in academies and exhibitions have first felt the
brush in those shingled studios clustered about the old inn, renowned for its savoury chowder. There is a
brilliance in the air, an almost Italian richness of colour, in the Island's landscape. It will be many years
before so vast a terrain can become crowded, but many new bungalows have been built lately, and the
newcomers pay tribute to the good taste of those who, a generation agone, divined Dark Harbour's
magic as a haven of summer tranquillity."

He felt a rational pride in this composition. It was in the genially fulsome vein esteemed by railroad
companies. Even if people weren't tranquil, in a place so competently described, they ought to be. He
thought there was a neatness in that touch about Dark Harbour and its bright future. Phyllis was probably
right when she often said it was a shame Mr. Granville should spend his talents in mere publicity work
when he might so easily write something famous — fiction, for instance. These are my fictions, he always
replied, pointing to his private shelf of advertising pamphlets, neatly bound and gilded as his Works.

He had spread out his papers on the dining table, where he could write without seeing Joyce's door. But
he couldn't seem to resume the flow of that slick treacly style, which the experienced brochurist can
smoothly decant, like a tilted molasses barrel. The discomforting irony of the last word penetrated him.
He changed "Italian richness" to "Italian passion," but that was as far as inspiration carried him. It was
vain to remind himself that Walter Scott had written novels all night long, that Napoleon had planned
campaigns in the agony of stomach-ache, that Elbert Hubbard was never at a loss for a Little Journey. In
a nervous fidget he pared his nails, sharpened pencils, rearranged the glasses on the sideboard, emptied
Ben's cigar debris from the living-room ash tray. He trod stealthily, in stocking feet, for fear of disturbing
Joyce. Without his usual couch to sleep on, his usual table to work at, he felt homeless. There was a dull
pain at the bottom of his ribs. He tried to remember whether he had unduly bolted his food at dinner.
Perhaps he was going to have appendicitis.

He had a sort of insane desire to justify his existence, to atone for a day of such incredible futility by
getting some work done. If every possible extraneous trifle could be attended to perhaps his mind might
be calmed. He crept upstairs to clean his teeth and found that Phyllis had put his dressing gown and
pyjamas and slippers on the window seat. Was that a softening overture, or a hint that she did not want
him in the bedroom? He tiptoed warily to the balcony to glance at the children. Even in sleep Sylvia was
still the coquette: she lay with one hand curled against her cheek, the most ravishing pose, her face a
lovely fragile gravity. Janet was restless, muttering something about bathing.

He undressed, sitting on the window seat. With a vague notion of postponing the struggle with the
pamphlet he went through his routine with unusual care, watching the details. He noticed for the first time
his ingenious attempt to retain the tip of each sock, by curling his toes into it as he removed it. The
purpose was evidently to turn the sock completely inside out in the one motion of stripping it off. For the
first time in weeks, he decided to fold his trousers neatly instead of just throwing them on a chair. He
gave them a preliminary shake and found that the sand lodged in the cuffs flew unerringly into his eyes.
He discovered that if he tried to put the left leg into his pyjamas first, instead of the right, it didn't feel as
though he had them on at all. The laundress had managed to let the end of the waist-string vanish inside
its little tunnel of hem. It required some very sharp work to creep it out again. What a good booklet
could be written, for some pyjama and underwear manufacturer, on The Technique of Getting
Undressed. How pleasant that if you lay out your clothes just in the order of their discarding they are
exactly serialized in the correct sequence for dressing tomorrow.

All this, he felt with subtle horror, was just a postponement of something inevitable, something he knew
was coming but could not identify. Some great beauty of retribution had him in its onward march. He was
unworthy of the glory of living, he had niggled and haggled and somewhere in his bunglings he had
touched some fatal spring. He had broken some seal, let the genie out of the bottle. The little whiff of
fragrant vapour had flowed and spread until it darkened the whole sky. It hung terrible above him and the
four tiny Georges cowered beneath it. And behind and within every other thought was Joyce. He could
see her, perfect, inaccessible, afraid. This dear device of Nature, this gay, simple ingenuity of dividing life
into halves and making them hanker for one another! Oh, Joyce, Joyce, it does matter. Joyce, I need you
so.

A craven impulse tempted him to turn in at once, on the window seat; but its curved shape was not
comfortable; moreover, how could he possibly sleep? Downstairs the big couch had a lamp by it; he
could read, and while reading, think. The principal pleasure of reading, he had always found, is to fix the
attention of the coarse outer mind, allowing the inner faculty to slip free. As he went down the clock
startled him by counting midnight. He timed his step on the creaky treads so that the chime would cover
them. But that settled it, he thought. One can continue working after twelve, but one can't possibly begin
work at that hour. Besides, it's impossible to be conscientious in dressing gown and slippers. Morals,
conscience, ambition, all the cunning artifice of custom, are laid aside with the garments of the day. The
sophistries of virtue avail you nothing now. The thing in your heart that you are angriest at and most
ashamed of, that is God. And that's what gods are invented for: to be despised and rejected. A god who
was honoured and welcomed, how unhappy he would be.

He lay down on the couch with a book, but his mind ran wild behind the printed lines. The weight and
breathing of the silent house pressed about him. How well he knew that feeling of a house at night. All the
others, broken at last by the day's long war of attrition, lost in their silence; himself the sole survivor,
gleaning stupidly over the battlefield. Matching his lonely wit against destiny, aware of a shuddering
compassion for these unruly lives under his charge. What was it that kept them all going? Only his
dreams, his poor busy ideas. For the moment he could feel the whole fabric transfigured with truth and
tenderness; with love that was furious and clean, with work that was sane and absorbing. What did he
really care whether thousands of people did or did not spend their summer on the Great Scenic Route of
the Eastern Railroad? Or whether they bedded on the Morrison Mattress, that Makes Sleep a Career?

He slipped to his knees beside the sofa, but he could not even pray. He was aware of the door behind
him, and of Phyllis in the room overhead. How terrible if any one should find him on his knees. Praying is
only respectable if done in congregations. He remembered those cold evenings long ago, when he and
Phyllis couldn't sleep unless she were pressed close behind him, her arm across his chest. And now he
was living among strangers. I'll do whatever you tell me, I'll do whatever you tell me. But by heaven he
had glimpsed it: he had seen beauty within breath and grasp: too close to mar it by selfishness. No, said
his demon, you shan't even have the consolation of fine words. You shall have all the mockery and none
of the bliss.
I suppose biology's pulling my leg, he reflected. . . .

He must have been kneeling there a long time. His forehead was numb from pressing on the ridged
tapestry of the couch. At least you don't need the light on when you're trying to pray. The bills are big
enough as it is. He rose stiffly and snicked off the current.

At the foot of the stair he paused. If Joyce were awake he might hear her stir. His hand gripped the
carved newel, then slid onto the smooth ascent of the banister rail. He stood a moment, and turned away.

The bedroom was dim. The blinds were not all the way down, dregs of that sparkling moonlight flowed
underneath. Phyllis was asleep, he could see her head against the white linen. She lay as she always did,
at the far side of the bed, turned away from the door, her arms crossed, one hand perching on her
shoulder, the other tucked under the pillow. He went softly round the foot of the bed, stepping aside to
avoid her slippers. He knew by instinct exactly where they would be.

Crouched at the bedside, he slid one arm under the pillow to find her hand. His fingers met a small damp
handkerchief.

He gathered her into his arms. Out of some far-off vacancy she moved drowsily and welcomed him
home. They knew every curve of their old embrace. Here was no fear and no doubting. Here was his
consolation. Who was ever more beautiful? The tiny flattened handkerchief, was it not a pathetic symbol
of the bruised mercies of love? Ah, be slow to mock the plain, simplest things: good-byes, angers,
fidelities, renunciations.

He held her close and more close. Then, with a gruesome pang, he checked the name that was on his
lips. In the poor comedy of his heart there was room for but one thought: gratitude to Joyce; Joyce who
in the unstained bravery of her spirit had taught him anew the worth and miracle of love and whose only
reward had been suffering. Her name, so long echoed in his unuttered voice, now filled his mind and
terrified him. Here, with Phyllis in his arms, he was thinking of her; this frail ghost of passion came
between them. In physical sickness his embrace grew faint. It could not be: the last scruple of his
manhood revolted against this consummate deceit.

Still half in dream, Phyllis divined him laggard. She crept closer. "Oh, Martin, Martin," she whispered. "I
knew you'd come."

Now he knew where the dark current of the hours had been bearing him. Nothing else was possible.
Quietly, without anger or surprise, in the relief of one free to face his destiny, he left the room and went
down the stair. His hand was out to turn the knob when he saw that Joyce's door was opening toward
him.
                                                    XIX

Joyce lay in a trance of weariness. A nervous tremolo shivered up and down from her knees to her
stomach; her spirit seemed lost and dragged under into the strange circling life of the body, stubborn as
that of a tree, that goes on regardless of the mind. I don't care, she thought, I'm glad I'm alive. She was
too inert to close her hot eyes or turn over into the pillow to shut out sounds from her sharpened ears.
She heard George's step on the garden path, Phyllis come downstairs and go to the kitchen. Beneath
everything else was the obbligato of the house itself; twinges of loose timbers, the gurgle and rush of
plumbing, creak of beds, murmuring voices, soft shut of doors. Tenacious life reluctantly yielding itself to
oblivion. Then into this fading recessional came the low sough in the pines, the slackening volleys of the
crickets like a besieging army that had withdrawn its troops. And the far-away cry of a train. She
imagined it, trailing panes of golden light along the shore, or perhaps darkly curtained sleeping cars
partitioned into narrow kennels where mysterious people lay alone: and the bursting silver plume of its
whistle, spiriting into the cool night, tearing a jagged rent in silence, shaking the whole membrane of
elastic air that enveloped them all, a vibration that came undulating over the glittering bay, over the lonely
beaches, trembled beside her and went throbbing away. . . . She hadn't been down to the beach yet, past
the rolling dunes that gave her childhood a first sense of fatal solitude. She tried to remember how that
shore looked: wideness, sharp air, the exact curved triangle of sails leaning into unseen sweetness of
breeze, steep slides of sand over-tufted above by toppling clumps of grass. If one could escape down
there and go bathing in moonlight; come back cleansed, triumphant.

The whisper at the window sill startled her. She knew Bunny at once.

"You must get him away. Before it's too late, before he knows."

Joyce understood perfectly; so perfectly it didn't seem necessary to say anything. This was just what she
had been telling herself.

She nodded.

"I kept calling him while you were all in the living room. I was here at this window. He won't listen. He
thinks I'm just teasing him."

Joyce remembered Martin closing the door.

"Then I called you. I was so afraid you wouldn't hear me. It's awful to be helpless."

"Bunny, you're not helpless. Tell me what to do."

"What room is he in?"

"I don't know. Yes, I do, I think it's at the end of the passage, next the bath."

"The old nursery. Oh, if I could come indoors. I can't; they've forgotten me."

"We'll manage," Joyce whispered. "I always knew you and I would have to help each other."

"He must find something to take him back. You are the one who can help."

Joyce knew there was some secret here too beautiful to be said. Bunny could not tell her, it must be
guessed.

"Is it something I gave him?"
"Something you'd like to keep."

"Is it the mouse? Bunny, how can we find it? That was a lifetime ago."

"Perhaps it's in the nursery. In the old toy cupboard."

"I'll get it in the morning."

"That may be too late. Now, tonight."

"Oh Bunny, tell me plainly. Is it the mouse you mean?"

She was tugging fiercely to raise the screen, jammed in its grooves. Her fingers still tingled from the sharp
edges of the shallow metal sockets. Only the empty garden, the sinking candy-peel moon beyond the
black arc of hill. The impression was vivid upon her. There was only one thing to do, she must go through
the sleeping house to Martin's room, rouse him, tell him at once. She rose from bed and opened the
door.

He was there, holding out his hand; motionless as though he had been waiting so all the shining night. She
took it mechanically.

"Who is it?" she said.

"Who else could it be?"

But at first she had thought it was Martin, somehow warned by Bunny. They stood aghast of one
another, in silence, awkwardly holding hands. It was not like a meeting, it was like a good-bye.

The declining moonlight limned her cloudily. But this was no silly dream. He saw her revealed in all her
wistful beauty, meant from the beginning for him.

"George, we must get Martin out of the house — "

Martin again. Evidently, he thought, the gods intend to wring the last drop of comedy out of me.

"Damn Martin," he said softly. "Joyce, I didn't find you at last to talk about him. Dear, I told you we'd
know it if the time came."

Was this what Bunny meant by giving? I have nothing to give. The Me he loves has gone somewhere.
How can I tell him? Instead of the imagined joy and communion there's only horror. And I want so to
love him.

He had carried her to the couch and was kneeling beside her. Oh, if I could lay down the burden of this
heavy, heavy love. If I could love him gladly, not just bitterly. Is this the only way to save him from
knowing? Such a little thing, that I wanted to keep for myself. She turned from him convulsively and
buried her face in the pillow. He mustn't see my tears. The cruellest thing is, he'll think I don't love him.
No man was ever so loved. But I gave myself, long ago, to the dream of him. I can't mix it with the
reality.

She turned, in a mercy of pure tenderness.

"George, dear George, I meant what I said."

I'll do whatever you tell me, I'll do whatever you tell me. But he divined her misery. The brave words
trembled. She lay before him, white, inaccessible, afraid. Exquisite, made for delight, with every grace
that the brave lust of man has dreamed; and weariness, anxiety, some strange disease of the spirit,
frustrated it. Their love too was a guest of honour, a god to be turned away. She lay there, her sweet
body the very sign and symbol of their need, and he knew nothing but pity, as for a wounded child. In
that strange moment his poor courage was worthy of hers. God pity me for a fool, he thought. But I love
her best of all because I shall never have her.

"I'm going to tell you the truth," he began —

A jarring crash shook the house, followed by a child's scream. He rose heavily to his feet, tightened and
nauseated with terror. He knew exactly what must have happened. The railing on the sleeping porch,
which he had forgotten to mend. One of the children had got out of bed, stumbled against it, the rotten
posts had given way. If she had fallen from that height . . . he pictured a broken white figure on the
gravel. This was his punishment for selfishness and folly. Oh, it is always the innocent who suffer.

With heaviness in his feet he hurried through the dining room and veranda. All was still: looking up he
could see the balcony unaltered. Then, through the open windows above he heard the unmistakable clang
of metal on a wooden floor. Ben's bed.

Unable to shake off his conviction of disaster he ran upstairs. Phyllis was crouching in the passage,
comforting Janet. "I had a bad dream," the child sobbed, "then there was that awful noise."

"There, there, darling, you're all right now. We all have dreams sometimes. You can come into bed with
Mother."

There was the bleat of one of the talking dolls. "Maaa-Maa!" it cried, and Sylvia appeared, sleepily
stolid. "Is it tomorrow?" she asked.

"I thought the porch had broken down," said Phyllis hysterically. "George, did you fix that railing?"

"Nonsense. The porch is all right. Get back to sleep, little toads."

"What was it, Ben's bed?"

"Ben's! No such luck, it's mine," said Ruth, opening the door. "Where does the light turn on? I can't find
the button." She saw George and gave a squeak of dismay.

She needn't be so damned skittish, he thought angrily. Nightgowns don't seem to be any novelty in this
house. "Phyl, you take Janet into bed, I'll put Sylvia on the window seat. Keep them off that porch till I've
mended the railing in the morning."

Ben was grumbling over the wreckage. "George, what's the secret of this thing? Lend a hand."

"I'm frightfully sorry," said George. "I ought to have warned you. Here, I can fix it, there's a bit of clothes
line — "

"For Heaven's sake, don't start tinkering now," said Ruth, who had dived into the other bed. "I'm all right
here, and Ben can sleep on the mattress."

Her door was open, she stood anxiously waiting as he came downstairs at last. She had put on her
wrapper, he noticed with a twinge.

"Ruth's bed had a blow-out," he said. "At least I thought she was safe when she's between the sheets."
He felt that he ought to want to laugh, but he had no desire to. I suppose it's because I've got no sense of
humour. "Mr. Martin seems the only one who knows that night is meant to forget things in. Well, let him
sleep. He'll be on his way early in the morning."

She did not answer at once, searching for the words that would help him most.

"I must go too. George, you must let me. I'd only spoil your Picnic."

"You'll miss a lot of nice sandwiches," he said bitterly. "I made them myself, white meat."

With divine perception she saw the nature of his wound, the misery of his shame and self-abasement. It
was not love of her he needed now, but love of himself, to keep life in him.

"We wouldn't have any chance to be us, we couldn't talk, we must say it now."

He remembered that once they had promised themselves they would never say it.

"It's better so, I suppose. Then there won't be even one sorrow that we haven't shared."

"Sorrow?" she said. "Let's call it joy. Dear, I shall always worship you as the bravest and most generous
I have ever known. To do without things one can't have, what credit is that? But to do without what one
might have had . . . George, let me try to get a little rest. I feel so ill."

He tucked her in and patted her shoulder.

"Good-night, dear," he said. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right in the morning. God bless you. . . .
Don't forget any of the things I haven't told you."

She knew that this was as near being one of his Moments as he could be expected to manage. He had
turned the corner, at least three of the Georges would live. And the Fourth — well, she had that one
where nothing mortal now could blot or stain him. For ever.

"In the morning" . . . it was morning already. As he lay down on the couch he could feel, rather than see,
the first dim fumes of day. The brief hush and interim was over, the pink moon had gone. The last of the
crickets flung the password to the birds, treetops began to warble. A new link in the endless chain picked
up the tension of life. Somewhere over the hillside a cock was crowing his brisk undoubting cheer.

So this was what they called victory. What was the saying? — One more such victory. . . . Not even
those last merciful words of hers could acquit him of his own damnation. All the irony, none of the bliss.
The world hung about his neck like the Mariner's dead albatross. The charnel corpse clung to him,
rotting, with bony skull and jellied festering eye. But even the Mariner was worthier, having killed the
bird; he himself had only maimed it. There would not even be the sharp numbing surgery of good-bye.
Endlessly, through long perspectives of pain, he could see themselves meeting, smiling and parting, to
encounter once more round the next corner of memory and all the horror to be lived again. We're
experienced in partings, he had said once.

The gradual summer dawn crept up the slopes of earth, brimmed and brightened, and tinctures of
lavender stained the sweetened air. The hours when sleep is happiest, ere two and two have waked to
find themselves four, and the birds pour the congested music of night out of their hearts. And the day
drew near: the day when men are so reasonable, canny, and well-bred; when colour comes back to earth
and beneficent weary necessities resume; the healthful humorous day, the fantastic day that men do well
to take so seriously as it distracts them from their unappeasable desires. With an unheard buzz of
cylinders the farmer's flivver twirled up the back lane and brought the morning milk.
                                                    XX

Janet was surprised to find that she had gone abroad during the night. She was puzzled until she noticed
that where she lay she could see herself reflected in the dressing-table mirror, which was tilted forward a
little. The shoehorn, that held it at the proper angle for Mother's hair, had slipped down. So the whole
area of the big bed was visible in the glass, and the mounded hill of white blanket that must be Mother.
Under the snug tent of bedclothes Janet could feel the radiating warmth coming from behind her. She
experimented a little, edging softly closer to see how near she could get to that large heat without actually
touching it. How warm grown-up people's bodies are!

The curtains rippled inward in the cool morning air. The light was very grey, not yellow as it ought to be
on the morning of a picnic. Her clothes were on the floor beside the bed. Clothes look lonely with
nobody in them. She watched herself in the glass, opening her mouth and holding up her hand to see the
reflection do the same thing. Then the clock downstairs struck seven, and she felt it safe to slip out. In the
glass she saw the blankets open, a pair of legs grope outward. Cautiously, not to rouse Mother, she
picked up her clothes and got to the door. As she turned the knob one shoe fell with a thump. She
looked anxiously at the rounded hill. It stirred ominously, but said nothing.

Sylvia, with sheets and blankets trailing from her, lay like a bundle of laundry on the window seat. Janet
woke her, they sat dressing and babbling together, now and then shouting along the passage to Rose,
who slept with Nounou. Rose kept opening the nursery door to ask what they said, then, while the
remark was being repeated, Nounou's voice would command her to shut it. Janet, with brown knees
hunched under her chin, picked at shoelace knots. Sylvia, in her deliberate way, was planning this time to
get her shirt on right side forward. She announced several times her intention of drinking plenty of ginger
ale at the Picnic, because peanut butter sandwiches make you so thirsty. She kept saying this in the hope
of learning, from Janet's comment, whether milk has to be drunk at Picnics. Janet did not contradict her,
so Sylvia felt that the ginger ale was a probability.

Ruth, lying in a delicious morning drowse, rather enjoyed their clatter, as one does enjoy the
responsibilities of others. Refreshed by long slumber, she relished the seven-o'clock-in-the-morning
feeling of a house with children in it. A sharp rumour of bacon and coffee came tingling up the back stairs.
She lazily reckoned the number of people who would be using the bathroom. It would be a good plan to
get ahead of the traffic. But while she was trying to make the decision she heard the children hailing
George. He said something about not leaning out of the windows without any clothes on. "We're trying to
see if there are cobwebs on the lawn, when there's cobwebs it's not going to rain." Then his steps moved
along the corridor. She relapsed into her warm soothing sprawl. Besides, it's always a nuisance to get
down too early and have to wait about for breakfast. She liked to arrive just when the coffee was coming
fresh onto the table.

She looked forward to an entertaining day. Nothing is more amusing than one's friends in the knot of
absurd circumstance. She had been afraid of Joyce; but certainly last night the girl had made a fool of
herself. And Phyllis, the cool and lovely Phyllis, usually so sure, she too would be on the defensive. The
life of women like Ruth sometimes appears a vast campaign of stealth. They move like Guy Fawkes
conspirators in the undervaults of society, planting ineffective petards in one another's cellars.

She enjoyed herself trying to foresee what Phyllis's strategy would be. I think I'll take pains to be rather
nice to Mr. Martin. In spite of his simplicity there's something dangerous about him. It would be fun to
allay his suspicions and then, when she got him in clear profile against the sky, shoot him down without
mercy. She felt an agreeable sensation of being on the strong side; of having underneath her the solid
conventions and technicalities of life — as comfortable and reassuringly supportive as the warm bed
itself. Not a very lucky analogy, perhaps: she looked over at Ben, who was still asleep on the floor. He
looked pathetic beside the collapsed bed frames, his dejected feet protruding at the end of the mattress.
But that was the satisfying thing about Ben: he was conquered and beaten. He would never surprise her
with any wild folly. Urbane, docile, enduring, he knew his place. Properly wedged into his seat in the
middle of the row, he would never trample on people's toes to reach the aisle between the acts. The
great fife and drum corps might racket all around him, he would scarcely hear it. There was cotton in his
ears. Any resolute woman, she reflected sagely, even without children to help her, can drill a man into
insensibility.

George allowed the bath water to splash noisily while he cleaned his teeth, but he always turned off the
tap while shaving. He shaved by ear as much as by sight or touch. Unless he could hear the crackling
stroke of the razor blade he was not satisfied that it was cutting properly.

"How soon do you think the Pony will come?" Janet had asked him as he came upstairs. The children
had found some deceptive promotion scheme advertised in a cheap magazine of Nounou's. The notice
had led them to believe that if they solved a very transparent puzzle they would easily win the First Prize,
a Shetland pony. They had answered the puzzle and now were waiting daily to hear the patter of hoofs
up the lane. To George's dismay he had found that they took this very seriously. They had swept out an
old stall in the stable and ravished a blanket from Rose's bed to keep Prince whose name and
photograph had appeared in the advertisement) from being cold at night. He had tried, gently, to caution
them, explaining that the original puzzle had only been preliminary lure for some subscription-getting
contest. Undismayed they had badgered Lizzie, the ice man, and a couple of neighbours into signing up at
twenty-five cents each. They paid no heed to his temperate warnings that it would be impossible to get
many subscriptions for so plebeian a journal. He wondered how he would ever be able to disillusion
them.

The razor paused and he stared at his half-lathered face in the glass as he realized the nice parallel. Isn't it
exactly what Nature is always doing to us? Promising us a Pony! The Pony of wealth, fame, satisfied
desire, contentment, if we just sign on the dotted line. . . . Obey that Impulse. By Heaven, what a
Promotion Scheme she has, the old jade! Had his sorry dreams been any wiser than those of Janet and
Sylvia? His absurd vision of being an artist in living, of knowing the glamour and passion of some
generous fruitful career, of piercing into the stormy darkness that lies beyond the pebbly shallows of
today — all risible! Life is defeat. Hide, hide the things you know to be true. Fall back into the genial
humdrum. Fill yourself with sleep. It's all a Promotion Scheme. . . . And inside these wary counsels
something central and unarguable was crying: It wasn't just a Pony. It was the horse with wings.

The great Promotion Scheme, the crude and adorable artifice! How many infatuated subscribers it has
lured in, even persuaded them to renew after they had found the magazine rather dull reading. In the
course of another million years would it still be the same, man and woman consoling and thwarting one
another in their study of the careless hints of Law? He could see the full stream of life, two intervolved
and struggling currents endlessly mocking and yearning to one another, hungry and afraid. Clear and
lucent in sunlit reaches, troubled and swift over stony stairs, coiled together in dreaming eddies, swinging
apart in frills of foam. Sweet immortal current, down and down to the unknown sea. Who has not thrilled
to it, craved it, cursed it, invented religions out of it, made it fetish or taboo, seen in its pure crystal the
mirror of his own austere or swinish face. Turn from it in horror, or muddy it with heavy feet, this cruel
water is troubled by angels and mirrors the blind face of God. Blessings on those who never knew it,
children and happy ghosts.

George ran his fingers over his glossy chin. He looked solemn recognition at the queer fellow in the glass,
and mused that it's only people who haven't had something they wanted who take the trouble to think
confused and beautiful thoughts. But he heard a cautious hand trying the knob. Even thinking about God
is no excuse for keeping others out of the bathroom. He laughed aloud, a peal of perfect self-mockery,
and splashed hastily into the cold water. Martin, waiting to get in, heard him and wondered. Usually it is
only gods or devils who are merry by themselves. Among human beings it takes two to make a laugh,

"Why were you laughing?" he asked, opening his door when he heard George leave the bathroom.

George paid no attention. He was hurrying to tell Phyllis his thoughts before they escaped. Who but she
would have endured his absurdities? If she had had hallucinations of her own, that only brought them
closer together. Out of these ashes they could rebuild their truth. Love means nothing until you fall into it
all over again.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, by the window, nervously picking the nails of one hand with the
forefinger of the other. This habit, which he detested, almost broke his enthusiasm. He had a grotesque
desire to tell her that he would forgive her even that. I guess I really do love her enormously, he thought,
or the little things she does wouldn't madden me so. Exasperated with sudden tenderness, he had
somehow expected her to meet him with equal affection. But she just sat there, looking down at her
hands. He took them, to stop the hated gesture. The bantam over the hill repeated his rollicking sharp
salute, which would have been an epigram if he had uttered it only once.

"I wish you could stop that rooster," she said. "Over and over again, the same identical squawk. I
wouldn't mind so much if he wasn't a bantam. It makes it seem so silly, somehow. He goes out under
those great tall pine trees and shouts at them."

He smiled and turned her face toward him. She looked pitiably tired. He knew how she would look
when she was old.

"Perhaps he's rather like me," he said.

"There was one here that crowed just like that when we were children. The same note exactly."

"It's heredity. Probably this is his great-great-great great-grand-egg."

She reached under the pillow, pulled out the little flattened handkerchief, and stood up.

"I must hurry. I'd give anything if today were over. I suppose life is like this, just day after day."

"Give me that," he said, taking the handkerchief. "I've seen it before."

"No, you haven't," she said, still in the same dull tone. "It's a new one."

"Yes, I have. Last night."

"Last night?"

"Yes, under your pillow."

"You?"

She stared, her face quivering. Suddenly the line of her mouth seemed to collapse and run downward.
Something tight had broken, something proud and fierce had bent. She was crying.

"Oh, Geordie, life is so much queerer than I ever knew. Why didn't you tell me? I had such beastly
dreams. I wish I could die."

The old name recalled one of his own for her.
"Leopard, Leopard . . . you silly little half-tamed leopard. What do I care about your dreams? It'll all be
all right in the morning."

"It is the morning, and it isn't all right. You take them for the Picnic, let me stay at home. I won't see Mr.
Martin. Take him away. He's so like you, Geordie, but with all your beastliness left out. Your nice
beastliness, your dear beastliness, everything that makes me hate and adore you."

"Now listen. I've got a great idea. I didn't half take my bath, I was so keen to tell it to you. Let's get
married."

She looked at him in such quaint misery, her face all wrinkled and slippery with tears, he was almost
angry again.

"Damn it, I mean really married. The first time doesn't count, it's only a Promotion Scheme, your genial
old prayer book admits it. But the Bible says it's better to marry than to burn, doesn't it?"

"Let's do both."

(Why, he thought, she's got almost as much sense as Joyce.)

"That's the way to talk," he said. "Because I'd much rather marry a woman with a sense of humour. All
right, we'll pretend we've been living in sin, and now I'm going to make an honest woman of you. Wilt
thou, Phyllis, have this man to thy wedded husband — "

"We have been living in sin. It's sin to be unhappy and hateful."

"Of course it is. And if either of you know any impediment — Where's that prayer book of yours? I love
that marriage-service stuff so much, it'd be worth while to get spliced every now and then just to hear it.
It's so gorgeously earthy. Remember that bit where as soon as he's tied 'em up the parson has misgivings,
and sings out in alarm 'O Lord, save thy servant and they handmaid'!"

"No, don't read me the prayer book now, I can't stand it. I want to get my bath."

"Run along then." He threw her blue robe around her shoulders. "We've got to go through with the Picnic,
for the children's sake. We'll make it the happiest day in the world."

"You don't think it's too late?"

He watched her down the passage, and then stood by the window seat looking out. The morning was
very moist, there was fog over the bay, the hall had a faint musty odour like damp wallpaper. Certainly it
was going to rain. Never mind, it would be one of those steady drumming rains that make a house so
cosy. He was surprised to see that Joyce was in the garden already, she had set up her easel near the tea
table and was painting. No, he thought, I shan't let her go: we can all be happy together. If Phyl knew
how much she owes to Joyce she'd fall at her feet. How wise women would be if they knew that a man
who has only loved one has never loved any. But better not mention it. Who wants them to be wise, poor
. . . half-tamed leopards!

"There's someone in the bathroom," Phyllis said, coming back.

"Martin, probably."

"No, it's Ruth. I can smell her all down the passage. That mignonette she uses. Funny how sharp one's
nose is in damp weather."
"If we ever come here again we'll have the house re-papered."

She knelt on the seat beside him.

"Don't let's come again."

Her look followed his into the quiet garden. Both were silent. George guessed well enough why Joyce
was there. She was doing a sketch for him, something to leave him. In that little figure at the easel was all
the honour and disaster of all the world.

Side by side, his arm about her, he and Phyllis looked down into the cool green refreshment of birdsong
and dew. The light was filled with a sense of mist, too thin to be seen, but sunshine was incapable behind
it. Filmy air globed them in, as the glimmering soap-bubble spheres a breath of the soap's perfume. A
dream, a fog stained with dim colour, a bubble of glamour, farce, and despair; all the sane comfortable
words are no more than wind. One gush of violets rebuts them. Life is too great for those who live it.
Purposely they wound and mar it, to bring it to their own tragic dimension. What was Joyce's word? . . .
Inadequate. Yes, not all the beauty of the world can allay the bitter disproportion. And Time will come to
rob us even of this precious grievance, this pang we carry in our dusty knapsack like the marshal's silver
baton. And Time will come and take my lust away. . . .

So learn to live on farce. To savour its venom, like the Eastern King, dose and larger dose, until one can
relish and thrive on a diet of acid that would blast the normal heart. Isn't it this very disproportion that
makes the glory? There would be no laughter in a perfect world. Ever after, digesting his secret poison,
he would search other faces too for the sign of that healing bane.

He felt that Phyllis was about to say something. He erased his mind, to be ready to receive her thought;
as one parent holds out arms to take the baby from the other.

"I think she's rather wonderful. I think I could . . ."

Joy and clean gusto, the blessed hilarity of living! Why, it was so divinely simple, if Phyl would care to
understand. . . .

"Dearest, if you . . . if you only . . ."

The half-tamed leopard stirred and showed a yellow spark. George's mind, uneasily changing itself, made
swift cusping arcs like the tracks of a turning car. Ruth came rustling from the bathroom. She was amazed
to see them doing a fox-trot together.

"Good-morning!" he said. "Perhaps you didn't know, this is our wedding day."

"Hurry up," he whispered to Phyllis. "Grab the bath while you can. I'll get dressed, I'll just have time to
mend that railing before breakfast."
                                                     XXI

Joyce had slipped out early. There was something unbearable in the house's morning stir, its sense of
preparation for living in which she would have no part.

Under the pine trees she was far enough from the house to consider it as a whole. She studied its
weather-beaten secrecy. She had the anxious apprehension of the artist, who needs to feel his subject,
purge it of mere reality, before he can begin work. The long line of the roof sagged a little, like an animal
inured to carry burdens. The two semicircled bays, flanking the veranda, kept the garden under scrutiny.
Each of all those windows had its own outlook on life. A thread of smoke stole from the kitchen chimney,
sifting into the hazy morning. Imperceptible greyness was in the nebulous light, filtered through a gauze of
ocean fog. The house was waiting, waiting. That vapoury air dimmed the bright world like breath on a
mirror. Yet, for her mood, it was somehow right. A morning of fire and blue would have been indecent.

Houses, built for rest and safety, and then filled with the tension of such trivial sufferings. I wonder if any
one has ever done a true portrait of a house? The opaque pearly light now seemed to her more sincere
than any glamour of sun or moon. But how reluctant it was to surrender its meaning. She could hear the
excited voices of the children, calling to and fro. Her mind was still pursuing something, she didn't know
just what. It was like trying to think of a forgotten word. The house hasn't yet quite got over being empty
so long, she thought. It's still a little bit empty. Or it believed that being lived in again would be such fun,
and now it's disappointed. It had forgotten that life is like this.

She began to paint. This picture was for George, to remind him of things he did not know he knew. It
must have love in it, and something more, too. The name of this picture, she said to herself, is A Portrait
of a House Saying Good-bye.

The shading was very odd along the veranda, between the two turreted bays and beneath the overhang
of the sleeping porch. The light came from no direction, it was latent and diffused, softened in slopes and
patches among many angles. She had already dabbed in the profile of the building when she realized what
it was that she wanted. It was not the outside of the house but an interior that was forming in her mind.
She left the outline tentative, as it was, and imagined the side of the house to be transparent. Under the
sharp projection of the balcony her brush struck through the glassed veranda and found itself in the dining
room. The tinted panes gave her a clean spot of colour to focus on. Below these the room was obscure,
but then the brush had discovered a pool of candlelight to dip in. Shadowy figures were sitting there, but
just as she was about to sketch them they seemed to dissolve from their chairs and run towards the
windows, looking outward furtively. There was another, too, outside the little sitting room, whispering in a
dapple of black and silver chiaroscuro. Oh, if I could only catch what this means. If someone could help
me. If George were here to help me. His large patience, his dear considering voice with the wandering
parentheses of thought that she had so often mocked and loved. Voice so near her now and soon so
impossible to hear. No one would help her. No one can ever help the artist. Others she saves, herself she
cannot save. . . .

She had saved him. She had saved Phyllis's George, given Phyllis the greatest gift of all. Given her back
those Georges, enriched with understanding and fear. But could she save her own poor phantom, or even
herself?

At any rate she was going back to her own life. She thought of that adored city waiting for her, its steep
geometries of building, its thousand glimpses that inflame the artist's eye. Extraordinary: you'd expect to
find a painter exultantly at work on every street corner; and how rarely you see 'em! — The correct
miseries of polite departure, a few gruesome hours in the train (ripping out the stitches of her golden
fancy) and she would be there. There, where the whole vast miracle seemed, in moments of ecstasy, to
have been planned for her special amazement and pleasure. The subway, with rows of shrewd and weary
faces; girls with their short skirts and vivid scarves; men with shaven, sharply modelled mouths . . . the
endless beauty of people, and their blessed insensibility to the infernal pang. . . . Yes, that was what
Phyllis could do for him better than she: dull and deaden that nerve in his mind: chloroform George the
Fourth, the poor little bastard!

She was going back to her own life. Back to the civilized pains of art: its nostalgia for lost simplicity, its
full and generous tolerance, its self-studious doubt, its divinely useless mirth, its disregard of things not
worth discussing among the cheerfully disenchanted. Ah, never try to explain things you know are true.
As soon as you begin to do that, they seem doubtful.

A darkness kept coming into the picture. It was as though the silence that had been stored up in that
house was now draining out of it, seeping into the absorbent air. The fog was thickening and distorted
perspectives. The house was out of drawing. That tricky shadow under the balcony was baffling: it made
the whole porch seem out of plumb. Holding up a brush to get a true horizontal, she saw that Martin was
coming across the lawn.

"Why, it's Bunny!" he said, pointing to the figure she had suggested with a few hasty strokes. "I know
now why she wanted you to help me."

Joyce did not look up.

"You must go, at once," she said.

"I was lying in bed, waiting for it to be time to get up. I saw that some of the wallpaper, by the window,
was torn. When I looked at it I found the mouse pattern underneath. It's the old nursery."

"That's what Bunny meant! Go and look in the cupboard, see if you can find it, the mouse I gave you.
That's your only chance."

"I think I understand now."

"You mean, you know that we're the same — "

"Yes, that is what we're all coming to. Except Bunny . . . and — and you. You haven't done it, not quite. .
. ."

"Martin, I'm worst of all," she cried. "I'm neither one nor the other."

"No, I think Ben is the worst," he said slowly. "It's too bad; he was such a nice boy. Of course George is
pretty awful, but I didn't know him before."

"Quick, go away. Don't try to learn too much. You must go for their sake. If they find out who you are
—"

She had a sick presentiment that they must hurry. And still he lingered, and she could feel Time sloping
toward some bottomless plunge.

"Perhaps I don't want to go. There's something I don't quite understand. You all look at each other so
queerly: look, and then turn away. And you and George in the garden. What is it? What's happened that
hurts you all so?"

How could she answer? How tell him that the world is often too fierce for its poor creatures, overstrains
and soils them in their most secret nerves; and that with all their horrors they would not have it otherwise.
He had come like the unspoiled essence of living, groping blindly for what it divines to be happy and real
and true; he was thwarted and damned by the murderous pettiness of his own scarred brethren. If I had
two friends called Food and Hunger, I'd never introduce them to each other. Must she, who was born to
love him, be the one to tell him this?

"You must go. Don't you see, it isn't only us. It's you too. You and George. . . . Oh, I tried not to tell
you. George is just you grown up."

He looked at her, appalled.

"You're the George that was once. That's why he hates you so.You're George the Fifth, I suppose," she
said, forgetting he wouldn't understand.

"I won't be like George!" he exclaimed. "But I shan't go unless you'll come with me. It wouldn't be any
fun unless you were there. Help us to get away, and we'll never come again."

She did not tell him that she could never go back; that he must go alone: that they would always be
lonely.

"Are you sure?" he asked pitiably. "Have I got to be like that? Like George, I mean?"

"Hurry, hurry," was all she could say.

He was running toward the house.

She tried to follow, but some sluggish seizure was about her limbs. The house, shadowy in deepening
mist, loomed over her. She seemed to hear its passages patter with racing feet. There was a face at the
pantry window. Perhaps there was a face at every window. There always is. She dared not look.

There were racing feet. The three children burst onto the porch above her.

"Time for breakfast!" they called. "And then we'll be ready for the Picnic!"

Now she knew. The whole dumb face of the house had been warning her; George's premonition last
night was the same. She tried wildly to wave them back, but her voice was sealed. Frolicking with
anticipation, Janet and Sylvia and Rose ran to the railing and leaned over to shout to her.

"See if there are any cobwebs! If there are, it's not going to rain."

Time swayed over her like an impending tree, tremulous, almost cut through. It seemed so gingerly
poised that perhaps the mere fury of her will could hold it stable for a moment. Where was Martin? Oh, if
he found the mouse in time he would get back before this happened and perhaps his memory would be
wiped clean. She saw George appear at the door of the porch with tools in his hands, and his face turn
ghastly.

"We're going to have ginger ale at the Picnic," Sylvia was calling.

She tried to hold Time still with her mind. She was frantically motioning the children back, crying out and
wondering whether her voice made any sound. The balustrade was going, she saw the old splintery wood
cracking, swaying, sagging. There was a snapping crash of breaking posts. The children's faces, flushed
with gaiety, their mouths open, suddenly changed. They leaned forward and still farther forward, holding
out their arms to her as though for an embrace. They were beginning to fall. After so many little tears and
troubles, how could they know that this was more than one last strange tenderness. And as the railing
shattered and they fell, she saw that Martin was at the door of the porch. He had found it.
                                                      XXII

The candles were still smoking on the cake, the children all trooping toward the hall. "Wait, wait!" he
cried. "Come back a minute!"

They turned in surprise. The Grown-Ups, very large in the doorway, looked like gigantic prison-guards
faced by some sudden unexpected insurrection. One of them brushed against the bronze gongs hanging at
one side of the door. They jangled softly as if calling them all to attention.

"Don't let's play that game," he said breathlessly. "It's too terrible."

"What game'?' asked Mrs. Richmond.

"We made up a game. A game of spies, to — " He realized that he couldn't possibly explain with the
Parents standing there. He caught Joyce's eye. She looked frightened.

"Why, Martin, how silly you are," chirped Phyllis. "Of course we weren't going to play it, not really."

"He's not silly!" Joyce shouted fiercely. "I was going to play it."

"So was I," Bunny flashed. "Phyllis is telling fibs. We were going to play it. We were going to spy on
Grown-Ups, to find out whether they have a good time."

"Bunny, Bunny," said her mother reprovingly. "Tell Phyllis you're sorry. You mustn't forget she's a guest."

"Don't mention it," said Phyllis primly. "When I grow up I'm going to have a lot of children and teach them
lovely manners."

"When I grow up," Bunny exclaimed, "my children won't never have to say Thank you or they're sorry
unless they really mean it."

"When I grow up," Ruth said, "I'm going to do without children. They're too much of a burden."

"Perhaps when the time comes," said one of the guards, "they'll find it's not as easy as it sounds."

Martin turned hopelessly to the boys. "Ben, don't you grow up. It isn't fun. Ben, I — I advise you not to
grow up."

"Quit your kidding," Ben retorted. "What's biting you?"

"Ben!" exclaimed an indignant parent. "Where on earth do you pick up that way of talking. I'm amazed
at you."

Martin saw it was too late. Already something had happened. Just the invasion of elders into the room
had changed them all.

"Mother!" he appealed. "Tell the truth, it's awfully important, cross your heart and hope to die. Do you
have a good time?"

A chorus of laughter from the adults.

"Why, dear, what an absurd question. Do we look so miserable?"

"They won't tell us," he cried bitterly. "They're all liars!"
There was an appalled silence.

"It's time to get them home. Parties always upset them. Ben, stop biting your nails."

"Joyce, what on earth are you snivelling about? Really, it seems as though the more you do for them the
less they appreciate it."

The rain had thinned to a drizzle. Martin stood uneasily in the hall while the others collected umbrellas and
rubbers and repeated their curtsies. The house smelled of raincoats and fresh wallpaper.

"Martin, what is it? Don't you see I'm busy talking to Mrs. Clyde? What do you keep twitching my arm
for?"

He had only wanted to ask her if they could invite Joyce to stay to supper. But he couldn't shout it out
before everyone.

"Well, then, if you didn't want anything special, why are you bothering me? Go and say good-bye to
Joyce. Say it politely, and tell her you hope she'll come again. And after that your father wants to speak
to you."

But Joyce had already gone, and when she looked back, to try to show him she understood, she did not
see him. His father was asking him if a boy ten years old didn't know better than to insult his parents like
that.
CHRISTOPHER MORLEY
About the Author
In a decidedly premature obituary Morley said: "Morley was probably as much puzzled or troubled by
himself as some of his readers were by him. He thought of himself (quite often) as essentially a poet, and
some of his verse is more important than has been recognized. His best loved private associations were
with people devoid of conventional culture, such as booksellers, shipmasters, travelling salesmen,
headwaiters and occasional professors of English literature."

The sly self-obituarist was born in Haverford, Pa., in 1890. He attended Haverford College and went to
New College, Oxford, as a Rhodes Scholar. In 1914 he married Helen Booth Fairchild and has 1 son
and 3 daughters. He has done considerable editorial work, notably for Doubleday, Page & Co., the old
New York Post, and the Saturday Review of Literature. In 1928 he was one of the founders of the
Hoboken Theatrical Company which sponsored revivals of old-time melodramas. He has been one of
the judges of the Book of the Month Club from its beginning.

Morley's better-known works include Where the Blue Begins (1922), Kitty Foyle (1939), and
Thorofare (1942).