 At breakfast that morning they were in wonderfully good spirits. Who was responsible? He or she? It was true she made a point of looking her best in the morning. She thought it part of her duty to him, to their love even, to wear charming little caps, funny little coats, coloured mules at breakfast time, and to see that the table was perfect as he and she, fastidious pair, understood the word. But he too, so fresh, so well groomed and content, contributed his share. She had been down first, sitting at her place when he came in. He leaned over the back of her chair, his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and lightly rubbed his cheek against hers, murmuring gently but with just enough pride of proprietorship to make her flush with delight. Give me my tea, love. And she lifted the silver teapot that had a silver pair modelled on the lid, and gave him his tea. Thanks! You know you look awfully well this morning. Do I? Yes. Do that again. Look at me again. It's your eyes. They're like a child's. I've never known any one have such shining eyes as you. Oh dear! she sighed for joy. I do love having sweet things said to me. Yes, you do. Spoiled child. Shall I give you some of this? No, thank you. Darling! Her hand flew across the table and clasped his hand. Yes. But she said nothing, only, darling, again. There was the look on his face she loved, a kind of sweet jesting. He was pretending he didn't know what she meant, and yet, of course, he did know. He was pretending to be feeling, here she is, trust a woman, all ready for a passionate love scene over the breakfast table at nine o'clock in the morning. But she wasn't deceived. She knew he felt just the same as she did. That amused tolerance, that mock despair was part of the ways of men. No more. May I be allowed to use this knife, please, or to put it down? Really. Mona had never yet got accustomed to her husband's smile. They had been married for three years. She was in love with him for countless reasons, but, apart from them all, a special reason all to itself was because of his smile. If it hadn't sounded nonsense, she would have said she fell in love at first sight over and over again when he smiled. Other people felt the charm of it too. Other women, she was certain. Sometimes she thought that even the servants watched for it. Don't forget we're going to the theatre tonight. Oh, good egg! I had forgotten. It's ages since we went to a show. Yes, isn't it? I feel quite thrilled. Don't you think we might have a tiny small celebration at dinner? Tiny small was one of her expressions. But why did it sound so sweet when he used it? Yes, let's. You mean champagne? And she looked into the distance and said in a faraway voice, then I must revise the sweet. At that moment the maid came in with the letters. There were four for him, three for her. No, one of hers belonged to him, too, rather a grimy little envelope with a dab of sealing wax on the back. Why do you get all the letters, she wailed, handing it across. It's awfully unfair. I love letters and I never get any. Well, I do like that, said he. How can you sit there and tell such awful bangers? It's the rarest thing on earth for me to get a letter in the morning. It's always you who get those mysterious epistles from girls you were at college with, or faded aunts. Here, have half my pair. It's a beauty. She held out her plate. The Rutherford's never shared their letters. It was her idea that they should not. He had been violently opposed to it at first. She couldn't help laughing. He had so absolutely misunderstood her reason. Good God, my dear! You're perfectly welcome to open any letters of mine that come to the house, or to read any letters of mine that may be lying about. I think I can promise you. Oh, no, no, darling, that's not what I mean. I don't suspect you. And she put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him quickly. He looked like an offended boy. But so many of mother's old friends write to me, confiding me, don't you know? Tell me things they wouldn't for the world tell a man. I feel it wouldn't be fair to them, don't you see? He gave way at last. But I'm old-fashioned, he said, and his smile was a little rueful. I like to feel my wife read my letters. My precious dear, I've made you unhappy. She felt so repentant she didn't know quite about what. Of course, I'd love to read. No, no, that's all right. It's understood. We'll keep the bond. And they had kept it. He slit open the grimy envelope. He began to read. Damn! he said, and thrust out his underlip. Why, what is it? Something horrid? No. Annoying. I shall be late this evening. A man wants to meet me at the office at six o'clock. Was that a business letter? She sounded surprised. Yes, why? It looked so awfully un-business-like. The ceiling wax and the funny writing. Much more like a woman's than a man's. He laughed. He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and picked up the envelope. Yes, he said. It is queer, isn't it? I shouldn't have noticed. How quick you are! But it does look exactly like a woman's hand. The capital R, for instance. He flipped the envelope across to her. Yes, and that squiggle underneath. I should have said a rather uneducated female. As a matter of fact, said Hugh, he's a mining engineer. And he got up, began to stretch, and then stopped. I say, what a glorious morning! Why do I have to go to the office instead of staying at home and playing with you? And he came over to her and locked his arms around her neck. Tell me that, little lovely one. Oh! she leaned against him. I wish you could. Life's arranged badly for people like you and me. And now you're going to be late this evening. Never mind, said he. All the rest of the time's ours. Every single bit of it. We shan't come back from the theatre to find, are porch-black with mining engineers? She laughed. Did other people? Could other people? Was it possible that anyone before had ever loved as they loved? She squeezed her head against him. She heard his watch ticking. Precious watch. What are those purple floppy flowers in my bedroom? He murmured. Petunias. You smell exactly like a Petunia. And he raised her up. She drew towards him. Kiss me, said he. It was her habit to sit on the bottom stair and watch his final preparations. Strange it should be so fascinating to see someone brush his hat, choose a pair of gloves, and give her last quick look in the round mirror. But it was the same when he was shaving. When she loved to curl up on the hard little couch in his dressing-room, she was as absorbed as intent as he. How fantastic he looked, like a pierrot, like a mask, with those dark eyebrows, liquid eyes, and the brush of flesh-colour on his cheekbones above the lather. But that was not her chief feeling. No, it was what she felt on the stairs, too. It was so. This is my husband. So this is the man I've married. This is the stranger who walked across the lawn that afternoon, swinging his tennis racket, and bowed, rolling up his shirt sleeves. This is not only my lover and my husband, but my brother, my dearest friend, my playmate, even at times a very perfect father, too. And here is where we live. Here is his room, and here is our hall. She seemed to be showing their house and him to her other self, the self she had been before she had met him, deeply admiring, almost awed by so much happiness, that other self looked on. Will I do? He stood there smiling, stroking on his gloves. But although he wouldn't like her to say the things she often longed to say about his appearance, she did think she detected that morning just the very faintest, boyish showing off. Children who know they are admired look like that at their mother. Yes, you'll do. Perhaps at that moment she was proud of him as a mother is proud. She could have blessed him before he went his way. Instead, she stood on the porch thinking. There he goes. The man I have married, the stranger who came across the lawn. The fact was never less wonderful. It was never less wonderful. Never. It was even more wonderful, if anything, and the reason was, Mona ran back into the house, into the drawing-room, and sat down to the piano. Oh, why bother about reasons? She began to sing. See, love, I bring thee flowers to charm thy pain. But joy, joy breathless and exulting, thrilled in her voice. On the word pain, her lips parted in such a happy, dreadfully unsympathetic smile that she felt quite ashamed. She stopped playing, she turned round on the piano stall, facing the room. How different it looked in the morning. How severe and remote. The gray chairs with the fuchsia-colored cushions. The black and gold carpet. The bright green silk curtains might have belonged to anybody. It was like a stage-setting with the curtain still down. She had no right to be there. And, as she thought that, a queer little chill caught her. It seemed so extraordinary that anything, even a chair, should turn away from, should not respond to her happiness. I don't like this room in the morning. I don't like it at all. She decided, and she ran upstairs to finish dressing, ran into their big, shadowy bedroom, and leaned over the starry petunias. CHAPTER XIII. I DON'T SEE ANY WAY OUT FOR THE LIFE OF ME. The worst of it is, I can't get this thing into focus, if you know what I mean. I just feel in the muddle. In the hell of a muddle. It ought to be plain to anyone that I'm not the kind of man to get mixed up in a thing like this. I'm not one of your actor-johnies or a chap in a book. I'm, well, I knew what I was all right until yesterday. But now? I feel helpless. Yes, that's the word, helpless. Here I sit, chucking stones at the sea like a child that's missed its mother. And everybody else has cut along home hours ago and teased over, and it's getting on for time to light the lamp. I shall have to go home too, sooner or later. I see that, of course. In fact, would you believe it? At this very moment, I wish I was there in spite of everything. What's she doing? My wife, I mean. Has she cleared away, or has she stayed there, staring at the table with the plates pushed back? My God! When I think that I could howl like a dog, if you know what I mean. I should have realized it was all UP this morning when she didn't get up for breakfast. I did, in a way. But I couldn't face it. I had the feeling that if I said nothing special and just treated it as one of her bad headache days and went off to the office, by the time I got back this evening the whole affair would have blown over somehow. No, that wasn't it. I felt a bit like I do now, helpless. What was I to do? Just go on? That's all I could think of. So I took her up a cup of tea and a couple of slices of thin bread and butter as per usual on her headache days. The blind was still down, she was lying on her back. I think she had a wet handkerchief on her forehead. I'm not sure, for I couldn't look at her. It was a beastly feeling, and she said in a weak kind of voice, put the jug on the table, will you? I put it down. I said, can I do anything? And she said, no, I'll be alright in a half hour. But her voice, you know, it did it for me. I barged out as quick as I could, snatched my hat and stick from the hall stand and dashed off for the tram. Here's the queer thing. You'd needn't believe me if you don't want to. The moment I got out of the house I forgot that about my wife. It was a splendid morning, soft with the sun making silver ducks on the sea. The kind of morning when you know it's going to keep hot and fine all day. Even the tram bell sounded different. And the little school kids crammed between people's knees had bunches of flowers. I don't know. I can't understand why. I just felt happy. But happy in a way I'd never been before. Happy to beat the band. That wind that had been so strong the night before was still blowing a bit. It felt like her. The other, touching me. Yes, it did. Brought it back every bit of it. If I told you how it took me, you'd say I was mad. It felt reckless. Didn't care if I was late for the office or not, and I wanted to do every one a kindness. I helped the little kids out of the tram. One little chap dropped his cap. And when I picked it up for him and said, Here, sonny. Well, it was all I could do not to make a fool of myself. At the office it was just the same. It seemed to me I'd never known the fellows at the office before. When old Fisher came over to my desk and put down a couple of giant sweet peas, as per usual with his, beat him, old man, beat him. I didn't feel annoyed. I didn't care that he was riddled with conceit about his garden. I just looked at them and said quietly, Yes, you've done it this time. He didn't know what to make of it. Came back in about five minutes and asked me if I had a headache. And so it went on all day. In the evening I dashed home with the home-going crowd, pushed open the gate, saw the hall door open, as it always is, and sat down on the little chair just inside to take off my boots. My slippers were there, of course. This seemed to be a good sign. I put my boots into the rack in the cupboard under the stairs, changed my office coat, and made for the kitchen. I knew my wife was there. Wait a bit. The only thing I couldn't manage was the whistling, per usual. I often lie awake and think, What a dreadful thing is work. I had a try, but nothing came of it. Well, I opened the kitchen door and said, Hello, how's everybody? But as soon as I said that, even before, I knew the worst had happened. She was standing at the table, beating salad dressing. And when she looked up and gave me a kind of smile and said, Hello? You could have knocked me down. My wife looked dreadful. There are no other words for it. She must have been crying all day. She'd put some white flour stuff on her face to take away the marks, but it only made her look worse. She must have seen that I spotted something. For she caught up the cup of cream and poured it into the salad bowl, like she always does, you know, so quick, so neat in her own way, and began beating again. I said, Is your head better? But she didn't seem to hear. She said, Are you going to water the garden before or after supper? What could I say? I said, after and went off to the dining room, open the evening paper and sat by the open window. Well, hiding behind the paper, I suppose. I shall never forget sitting there. People passing by going down the road sounded so peaceful. And a man passed with some cows. I, I envied him. My wife came in and out. Then she called me to supper and we sat down. I suppose we ate some cold meat and salad. I don't remember. We must have. But neither of us spoke. It's like a dream now. Then she got up, changed the plates, and went to the larder for the pudding. Do you know what the pudding was? Well, of course. It wouldn't mean anything to you. It was my favorite. The kind she only made me on special occasions. Honey, comb, cream. To look at Mr. Potts, one would have thought that there at least went to someone who had nothing to boast about. He was a little insignificant fellow with a crooked tie. It had too small for him and a coat too large. The brown canvas portfolio that he carried to and from the post office every day was not like a businessman's portfolio. It was like a child's school satchel. It did up even with a round eyed button. One imagined there were crumbs and an apple core inside. And then there was something funny about his boots. Wasn't there? Through the laces this colored socks peeped out. What the Dickens had the chap done with the tongues. Fry them, suggested the wit of the Chesney bus. Poor old Potts. More likely buried him in his garden. Under his arm he clasped in umbrella. And in wet weather, when he put it up, he disappeared completely. He was not. He was a walking umbrella. No more. The umbrella became his shell. Mr. Potts lived in a little bungalow on Chesney flat. The bulge of the water tank to one side gave it a mournful air. Like a little bungalow with the toothache. There was no garden. A path had been cut in the paddock turf from the gate to the front door. And two beds, one round, one oblong, had been cut in what was going to be the front lawn. Down that path went Potts every morning at half past eight, and was picked up by the Chesney bus. But that path walked Potts every evening, while the great kettle of a bus droned on. In the late evening, when he crept as far as the gate, eager to smoke a pipe, he wasn't allowed to smoke any nearer to the house than that. So humble, so modest was his air, that the big, merrily shining stars seemed to wink at each other to laugh, to say, Look at him! Let's throw something! When Potts got out of the tram at the fire station to change it into the Chesney bus, he saw that something was up. The car was there all right, but the driver was off his perch. He was flat on his face half under the engine. And the conductor, his cap off, sat on a step rolling a cigarette and looking dreamy. A little group of businessmen and a woman, clerk or two, stood staring at the empty car. There was something mournful, pitiful about the way it leaned to one side and shivered faintly when the driver shook something. It was like someone who'd had an accident and tries to say, Don't touch me! Don't come near me! Don't hurt me! But all this was so familiar. The carps had only been running to Chesney the last few months, that nobody said anything, nobody asked anything. They just waited on the off chance. In fact, two or three decided to walk it as Potts came up. But Potts didn't want to walk unless he had to. He was tired. He'd been up half the night, rubbing his wife's chest. She had one of her mysterious pains, and helping the sleepy servant girl heat compresses and hot water bottles and make tea. The window was blue and the roosters had started crowing before he lay down, finally with feet like ice. And all this was familiar, too. Standing at the edge of the pavement, and now and again changing his brown canvas portfolio from one hand to the other, Potts began to live over the night before. But it was vague, shadowy. He sought himself moving like a crab, down the passage to the cold kitchen and back again. The two candles quivered on the dark chest of drawers, and as he bent over his wife, her big eyes suddenly flashed and she cried. I get no sympathy, no sympathy. You only do it because you have to. Don't contradict me. I can see your grudge doing it. Trying to soothe her only made matters worse. There had been an awful scene ending with her sitting up and saying solemnly, with her hand raised. Never mind. It will not be for long now. But the sound of these words frightened her so terribly that she flung back on the pillow and sobbed, Robert! Robert! Robert was the name of the young man to whom she had been engaged years ago before she met Potts. And Potts was very glad to hear him invoked. He had come to know that meant the crisis was over, and she began to quiet down. By this time Potts had wheeled round. He had walked across the pavement to the paling fence that ran beside. A piece of light grass pushed through the fence and some slender, silky daisies. Suddenly he saw a bee, a light on one of the daisies, and the flower leaned over, swayed, shook, while the little bee clung and rocked. And as it flew away the petals fluttered as if joyfully. Just for an instant Potts dropped into the world where this happened. He brought from it the timid smile with which he walked back to the car. But now everybody had disappeared except one young girl who stood beside the empty car reading. At the tail of the procession came Potts in a cassock, so much too large for him that it looked like a night shirt, and you felt that he ought to be carrying not a hymn and a prayer book, but a candle. His voice was a very light, plaintive tenor. It surprised everybody. It seemed to surprise him, too. But it was so plaintive that when he cried for the wings, for the wings of a dove, the ladies in the congregation wanted to clip together and buy him a pair. Lino's nose quivered so kiddifully there was such a wistful, timid look in his eyes that Potts's heart was wrong. But of course he would not show it. Well, he said sternly, I suppose you'd better come home. And he got up off the bench. Lino got up, too, but stood still, holding up a paw. But there's one thing, said Potts, turning and facing him squarely. That would better be clear about before you do come. And it's this. He pointed his finger at Lino, who started as though he expected to be shot, but he kept his bewildered, wistful eyes upon his master. Stop this pretence of being a fighting dog, said Potts more sternly than ever. You're not a fighting dog. You're a watchdog. That's what you are. Very well. Stick to it. But it's this infernal boasting I can't stand. It's that that gets me. In the moment's pause that followed while Lino and his master looked at each other it was curious how strong a resemblance was between them. Then Potts turned again and made for home. Intimidly, as though falling over his own pause, Lino followed after the humble little figure of his master. End of section 14. A man and his dog. Section number 15 of the Dowsnest and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bavia. The Dowsnest and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield. Such a sweet old lady. Why did old Mrs. Travers wake so early nowadays? She would like to have slept for another three hours at least. But no, every morning at almost precisely the same time, at half past four, she was wide awake. For, nowadays, again, she woke always in the same way with a slight stard, a small shock, lifting her head from the pillow with a quick glance as if she fancied someone had called her. Or, as if she were trying to remember for certain whether this was the same wallpaper, the same window she had seen last night before worners switched off the light. Then the small, silvery head pressed the white pillow again and just for a moment before the agony of lying awake began. Old, Mrs. Travers was happy. Her heart quietened down. She breathed deeply. She even smiled. Yet, once more the tide of darkness had arisen, had floated her, had carried her away, and once more it had ebbed. It had withdrawn, casting her up where it had found her, shut in by the same wallpaper, stared at by the same window, still safe, still there. Now, the church clock sounded from outside, slow, languid, faint as if it chimed the half-hour in its sleep. She fell down to the pillow for her watch. Yes, it said the same. Half past four, three and a half hours before a warner came in with her tea. Oh, dear! Would she able to stand it? She moved her legs restlessly, and staring at the prim, severe face of the watch, it seemed to her that the hands, the minute hand especially, knew that she was watching them and held back, just a very little, on purpose. Very strange! She had never got over the feeling that watch hated her. It had been Henry's. Twenty years ago, when standing by poor Henry's bed, she had taken it into her hands for the first time and wounded. It had felt cold and heavy, and two days later, when she undid a hook of her crepe bodies and thrust it inside, it had lain in her bosom like a stone. It had never felt at home there. Its place was ticking, keeping perfect time against Henry's firm ribs. It had never trusted her, just as he had never trusted her in those ways. And on the rare occasions when she had forgotten to wind it, she had felt a pang of almost terror, and she had murmured as she fitted a little key. Forgive me, Henry! Old Mrs. Travers sighed and pushed the watch under the pillow again. It seemed to her that lately this feeling that it hated her had become more definite. Perhaps that was because she looked at it so often, especially now that she was away from home. Far and clocks never go. They were always stopped at 20 minutes to two. 20 minutes to two? Such an unpleasant time, neither one thing nor the other. If one arrived anywhere, lunch was over and it was too early to expect a cup of tea, but she mustn't begin thinking about tea. Old Mrs. Travers pulled herself up in the bed and like a tired baby, she lifted her arms and let them fall on the eye to down. The room was gay with morning light. The big French window onto the balcony was open and the palm outside flung its quivering spider-like shadow over the bedroom walls. Although their hotel did not face the front, at this early hour you could smell the sea, you could hear its breathing, and fly high on the golden wings seagulls skimmed past. How peaceful the sky looked as though it was tenderly smiling. Far away, far away from this satin-striped wallpaper, the glass-covered table, the yellow-brocade sofa and chairs, and the mirrors that showed you your side view, your back view, your three-quarters view as well. Ernestine had been enthusiastic about this room. It's just the very room for you, mother, so bright and attractive and non-depressing, with a balcony too, so that on wet days you can still have your chair outside and look at those lovely palms. And Gladys can have the little room adjoining, which makes it so beautifully easy for Warner to keep her eye on you both. You couldn't have a nicer room, could you, mother? I can't get over that sweet balcony. So nice for Gladys. Cesar and I haven't got one at all. But, all the same, in spite of Ernestine, she never sat on that balcony, for some strange reason that she couldn't explain she hated looking at palms. Nasty foreign things, she called them in her mind. When they were still, they drooped. They looked draggled, like immense, untidy birds, and when they moved, they reminded her always of spiders. Why did they never look just natural and peaceful and shady, like English trees? Why were they forever writhing and twisting or standing sullen? Tied her even to think of them, or in fact of anything foreign. End of Section 15. Section 16 of The Dove's Nest and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sonya. The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Katharine Mansfield. Section 16. Honesty There was an expression Rupert Henderson was very fond of using. If you want my honest opinion, he had an honest opinion on every subject under the sun, and nothing short of a passion for delivering it. But Archie Cullen's pet phrase was, I cannot honestly say, which meant that he had not really made up his mind. He had not really made up his mind on any subject whatsoever. Why? Because he could not. He was unlike other men. He was minus something. Or was it plus? No matter. He was not in the least proud of the fact. It depressed him, one might go so far as to say terribly at times. Rupert and Archie lived together. That is to say, Archie lived in Rupert's rooms. Oh, he paid his share, his half in everything. The arrangement was a purely strictly business arrangement. But perhaps it was because Rupert had invited Archie that Archie remained always, his guest. They each had a bedroom, there was a common sitting room, and a largeish bathroom, which Rupert used as a dressing room as well. The first morning after his arrival, Archie had left his sponge in the bathroom. And a moment after there was a knock at his door, and Rupert said, kindly but firmly, your sponge, I fancy. The first evening Archie had brought his tobacco jar into the sitting room and placed it on a corner of the mantelpiece. Rupert was reading a newspaper. It was a round china jar. The surface painted and roughened to represent the sea urchin. On the lid was a spray of china seaweed with two berries for a knob. Archie was excessively fond of it. But after dinner, when Rupert took out his pipe and pouch, he suddenly fixed his eyes on this object, blew through his moustaches, gasped, and said in a wandering, astonished voice, I say, is that yours or Mrs. Head's? Mrs. Head was their landlady. It's mine, said Archie, and he blushed and smiled just a trifle timidly. I say, said Rupert again, this time very meaningly. Would you rather I, said Archie, and he moved in his chair to get up? No, no, certainly not, on no account, answered Rupert, and he actually raised his hand. But perhaps, and here he smiled at Archie and gazed about him, perhaps we might find some spot for it that was a trifle less conspicuous. The spot was not decided on, however, and Archie nipped his sole personal possession into his bedroom as soon as Rupert was out of the way. But it was chiefly at meals that the attitude of host and guest was most marked. For instance, on each separate occasion, even before they sat down, Rupert said, would you mind cutting the bread, Archie? Had he not made such a point of it, it is possible that Archie in a moment of abstractedness might have grasped the bread knife, an unpleasant thought. Again Archie was never allowed to serve. Even at breakfast the hot dishes and the tea both were dispensed by Rupert. True, he have apologized about the tea. He seemed to feel the necessity of some slight explanation there. I'm rather afraid about my tea, said he. Some people, females especially, pour in the milk first. Fatal habit, for more reasons than one. In my opinion, the cup should be filled just so, and the tea then colored. Sugar, Archie? Oh, please, said Archie almost bowing over the table. Rupert was so very impressive. But I suppose, said his friend, you don't notice any of these little things. And Archie answered vaguely, stirring, no, I don't suppose I do. Rupert sat down and unfolded his napkin. It would be very inconsistent with your character and disposition, said he, genially, if you did. Kidneys and bacon? Scrambled eggs? Either? Both? Which? Poor Archie hated scrambled eggs, but, alas, he was practically certain that scrambled eggs were expected of him too. This psychological awareness, as Rupert called it, which existed between them, might after a time make things a trifle difficult. He felt a little object as he murmured, eggs, please. And he saw by Rupert's expression, that he had chosen right. Rupert helped him to eggs, largely. Psychological awareness. Perhaps it was that which explained their intimacy. One might have been tempted to say it was a case of mutual fascination, but whereas Archie's reply to the suggestion would have been as low, possibly, Rupert would have flouted it at once. Fascination. The world's preposterous in this connection. What on earth would there be in Cullen to fascinate me, even if I was in the habit of being fascinated by my fellow creatures, which I certainly am not? No, I'll own, I am deeply interested. I confess my belief is, I understand him better than anybody else. And if you want my honest opinion, I am certain that my, my, hmm, influence over sympathy for him, call it what you like, is all to the good. There is a psychological awareness. Moreover, as a companion, instinctively I find him extremely agreeable. He stimulates some part of my mind, which is less active without him. But fascination, wide of the mark, my dear, wide. But supposing one remained unconvinced, supposing one still played with the idea, wasn't it possible to see Rupert and Archie as the python and the rabbit keeping house together? Rupert, that handsome, well-fed python, with his moustaches, his glare, his habit of uncoiling before a fire and swaying against the mantelpiece, pipe and pouch in hand, and Archie, soft, hunched, timid, sitting in the lesser armchair, there and not there, flicking back into the darkness at the word, but emerging again at a look, with sudden, wholly unexpected starts of playfulness, instantly suppressed by the python. Of course there was no question of anything so crude and dreadful as the rabbit being eaten by his housemate. Nevertheless it was a strange fact, after a typical evening, the one looked immensely swelled, benign and refreshed, and the other pale, small and exhausted. And more often than not, Rupert's final comment was, ominous this, as he doused his whiskey with soda, this has been very absorbing Archie. And Archie gasped out, oh, very. Archie Cullen was a journalist, and the son of a journalist. He had no private money, no influential connections, scarcely any friends. His father had been one of those weak, disappointed, unsuccessful men who see in their sons a weapon for themselves. He would get his own back on life through Archie. Archie would show them the stuff he, his father, was made of. Just you wait till my son comes along. This, though highly consoling to Mr. Cullen Pear, was terribly poor fun for Archie. At two-and-a-half his infant nose was put to the grindstone, and even on Sundays it was not taken off. Then his father took him out walking, and improved the occasion by making him spell the shop signs, count the yachts, racing in the harbour, divide them by four, and multiply the result by three. But the experiment was an amazing success. Archie turned away from the distractions of life, shut his ears, folded his feet, sat over the table with his book, and when the holidays came he didn't like them. They made him uneasy, so he went on reading for himself. He was a model boy. On price-giving days his father accompanied him to school, carried the great word of stiff books home for him, and finging them on the dining-room table he surveyed them with an exultant smile, my prizes. The little sacrifice stared at them, too, through his spectacles, as other little boys stared at puddings. He ought, of course, at this juncture to have been rescued by a doting mother, who, though cowed herself, rose on thee. Catherine Mansfield Susanna Of course there would have been no question of their going to the exhibition if father had not had the tickets given to him. Little girls cannot expect to be given treats that cost extra money, when only to feed them, buy them clothes, pay for their lessons and the house they live in takes their kind, generous father all day and every day working hard from morning till night. Except Saturday afternoons and Sundays, said Susanna. Susanna, mother, was very shocked. But do you know what would happen to your poor father if he didn't have a holiday on Saturday afternoons and Sundays? No, said Susanna. She looked interested. What? He would die, said their mother impressively. Would he? said Susanna, opening her eyes. She seemed astounded, and Sylvia and Phyllis, who were four and five years older than she, chimed in with, of course, in a very superior tone. What a little silly billy she was not to know that. They sounded so convinced and cheerful that their mother felt a little shaken and hastened to change the subject. So that is why, she said a little vaguely, you must each thank father separately before you go. And then he will give us the money, Phyllis, and then I shall ask him for whatever is necessary, said their mother firmly. She sighed suddenly and got up. Run along children and ask Miss Wade to dress you and get ready herself and then come down to the dining room. And now, Susanna, you are not to let go Miss Wade's hand from the moment you are through the gates until you are out again. Well, what if I go on a horse? inquired Susanna. Go on a horse, nonsense child. You're much too young for horses. Only big girls and boys can ride. There's roosters for small children, said Susanna, undaunted. I know because Irene Haywood went on one and when she got off she fell over. All the more reason why you shouldn't go on, said her mother. But Susanna looked as though falling over had no terrors for her. On the contrary, about the exhibition, however, Sylvia and Phyllis knew as little as Susanna. It was the first that had ever come to their town. One morning as Miss Wade, their lady, helped rush them along to the Haywoods, whose governess they shared. They had seen carts piled with great long planks of wood, sacks, what looked like whole doors, and white flagstaffs passing through the wide gate of the recreation ground. And by the time they were bowled home to their dinners, there were the beginnings of a high thin fence dotted with flagstaffs built all around the railings. From inside came a tremendous noise of hammering, shouting, clanging. A little engine hit in a way when chump and round woolly balls of smoke were tossed over the palings. First it was the day after the day after tomorrow, then plain day after tomorrow, then tomorrow, and at last the day itself. When Susanna woke up in the morning, there was a little gold spot of sunlight watching her from the wall. It looked as though it had been there for a long time, waiting to remind her, it's today! This afternoon, here she is! Second version. That afternoon they were allowed to cut jugs and basins out of a draper's catalogue, and at tea time they had real tea in the doll's tea set on the table. This was a very nice treat indeed, except that the doll's teapot wouldn't pour out even after you'd poked a pin down the spout and blown into it. But the next afternoon, which was Saturday, father came home in high feather. The front door binged so hard that the whole house shook, and he shouted to mother from the hall, oh how more than good of you darling, cred mother, but how unnecessary too. Of course they'll simply love it, but to have spent all that money, you shouldn't have done it, daddy dear. They've totally forgotten all about it. And what is this? Half a crown? Cread mother, no two shillings I see, she corrected quickly, to spend as well. Children, children, come down. Downstairs. Down they came, Phyllis and Sylvia leading, Susanna holding on. Do you know what father's done? And mother held up her hand. What was she holding? Three cherry tickets, and a green one. He's bought you tickets. You're to go to the circus this very afternoon. All of you with Miss Wade. What do you say to that? Oh mommy, lovely, lovely, cried Phyllis and Sylvia. Isn't it, said mother, run upstairs, run and ask Miss Wade to get you ready. Don't twaddle, up you go, all of you. Away flew Phyllis and Sylvia, but still Susanna stayed where she was at the bottom of the stairs, hanging her head. Go along, said mother, and father said sharply, what the devil's the matter with the child? Susanna's face quivered. I don't want to go, she whispered. What? Don't want to go to the exhibition? After father's, you naughty, ungrateful child. Either you go to the exhibition, Susanna, or you will be packed off to bed at once. Susanna's head bent low, lower still. All her little body bent forward. She looked as though she was going to bow down, to bow down to the ground before her kind, generous father, and beg for his forgiveness. End of section 17, recording by Sia Tuinae. Section 18 of The Dove Nests and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sia Tuinae. The Dove Nests and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield. Second violin. A February morning, windy, cold, with chill-looking clouds herring over a pale sky, and chill snow drops for sale in the gray streets. People look small and shrunken as they flip by. They look scared as if they were trying to hide inside their coats from something big and brutal. The shop doors are closed, the awnings are furled, and the policemen at the crossings are lead policemen. Huge empty vans shake past with a hollow sound, and there is a smell of soot and wet stone staircases. A raw, grimy smell. Blinging her small scarf over her shoulder again, clasping her violin, Miss Bright darts along to orchestra practice. She is conscious of her cold hands, her cold nose, and her colder feet. She can't feel her toes at all. Her feet are just little slaps of cold, all of a piece, like the feet of China dolls. Winter is a terrible time for thin people. Terrible. Why should it hound them down, fasten on them, worry them so? Why not for a change take a nip, take a snap at the fat ones who wouldn't notice? But no. It is sleek, warm, cat-like summer that makes the fat ones life a misery. Winter is all for bones. Threading her way like a needle in and out and along went misspray, and she thought of nothing but the cold. She had just come out of her kitchen, which was pleasantly snug in the morning with her gas fire going for her breakfast and the window closed. She had just drunk three large cups of really boiling tea. Surely they ought to have warmed her when always read in books of people going on their way warmed and invigorated by even one cup. And she had had three. How she loved her tea. She was getting fonder and fonder of it. Stirring the cup, misspray looked down. A little fond smile parted her lips, and she breathed tenderly, I love my tea. But all the same, in spite of the books, it didn't keep her warm. Cold, cold. And now as she turned the corner, she took such a gulp of down cold air that her eyes filled. Yee-hee-hee! A little dog yelped. He looked as though he'd been hurt. She hadn't time to look round, but that high, sharp yelping soothed her. Was a comfort even. She could have made just that sound herself. And here was the academy. Misspray pressed with all her might against the stiff, sulky door, squeezed through into the vestibule, hung with pallid notices and concert programs, and stumbled up the dusty stairs and along the passage to the dressing room. Through the open door there came such shrill, loud laughter, such high in different voices, that it sounded like a play going on in there. It was hard to believe people were not laughing and talking like that on purpose. Excuse me, pardon, sorry, said Misspray, nudging her way in and looking quickly round the dingy little room. Her two friends had not yet come. The first violins were there, a dreamy broad-faced girl leaned against her cello, two violas sat on a bench, bent over a music book, and the harp, a small gray little person who only came occasionally, leaned against the bench and looked for her pocket in her underskirt. I've a run of three twice ducky, said Ma. A pair of queens make eight, and one for his knob makes nine. With an awful hollow groan, Alexander, curling his little finger high, peg nine for Ma. And, wait now, wait now, she said, and her quick short little hand snatched at the other cards. My crib young man, she spread them out, leaned back, twitched her shawl, put her head on one side. Hmm, not so bad, a flush of four and a pair. Betrayed, betrayed, moaned Alexander, bowing his dark head over the cribbage board. And by a woman, he sighed deeply, shuffled the cards and said to Ma, cut for me my love. Although, of course, he was only having his joke like all professional young gentlemen, something in the tone in which he said my love, gave Ma quite a turn. Her lips trembled as she cut the cards. She felt the sudden pain as she watched those long, slim fingers stealing. Ma and Alexander were playing cribbage in the basement kitchen of number nine, Bolton Street. It was late, it was on 11, and Sunday night too, shocking. They sat at the kitchen table that was covered with a worn art search cloth spotted with candle grease. On one corner of it stood three glasses, three spoons, a saucer of sugar lumps, and a bottle of gin. The stove was still a light, and the lid of the kettle had just begun to lift, cautiously, stealthily, as though there was someone inside who wanted to have a peep and pop back again. On the horse hair sofa against the wall by the door, the owner of the third glass lay asleep, gently snoring. Perhaps because he had his back to them, perhaps because his feet poked out from the short overcoat covering him, he looked for Lorne, pathetic, and the long, fair hair covering his collar looked for Lorne and pathetic too. Well, well, said Ma, sighing as she put out two cards and arranged the others in a fan. Such is life! I little thought when I saw the last of you this morning that we'd be playing a game together tonight. The Cabrice of Destiny, murmured Alexander, that as a matter of fact it was no joking matter. By some infernal mischance that morning, he and Ronaldo had missed the train that all the company traveled by. That was bad enough. But being Sunday, there was no other train until midnight, and as they had a full rehearsal at ten o'clock on Monday, it meant going by that or getting what the company called the beat group. But, God, what a day it had been! They had left the luggage at the station and come back to Maz, back to Alexander's frowsy bedroom, with the bed unmade and water standing about. Ronaldo had spent the whole day sitting on the side of the bed, swinging his leg, dropping ash on the floor and saying, I wonder what made us lose that train. Strange we should have lost it. I bet the others are wondering what made us lose it too. And Alexander had stayed by the window, gazing into the small garden that was so black with grime. Even the old lean cat who came and scraped seemed revolted by it too. It was only after Ma had seemed the last of her Sunday visitors. End of Section 18, Recording by Sia Tuime. Section 19 of The Dove's Nest and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Mr. and Mrs. Williams. That winter, Mr. and Mrs. Williams of the Rowans, Wickenham Surrey, astonished their friends by announcing that they were going for a three weeks holiday to Switzerland. Switzerland! How very enterprising and exciting! There was quite a flutter in Wickenham households at the news. Husbands coming home from the city in the evening were greeted immediately with, My dear, have you heard the news about the Williams? No, what's up now? They're off to Switzerland. Switzerland? What the dickens are they going there for? That, of course, was only the extravagance of the moment. One knew perfectly well why people went. But nobody in Wickenham ever plunged so far away from home at that time of year. It was not considered necessary, as golf, bridge, a summer holiday at the sea, an account at Harrods and a small car, as soon as one could afford it, were considered necessary. Won't you find the initial expenditure very heavy? Asked stout old Mrs. Preen, meeting Mrs. Williams quite by chance at their nice obliging grosses. And she brushed the crumbs of a sample cheese biscuit off her broad bosom. Oh, we shall get our kit over there, said Mrs. Williams. Kit was a word in high favour among the Wickenham ladies. It was left over from the war, of course, with cheery, washout, hun, bosh, and balshy. As a matter of fact, balshy was post-war. But it belonged to the same mood. My dear, my housemaid is an absolute little hun, and I'm afraid the cook is turning balshy. There was a fascination in those words. To use them was like opening one's red cross cupboard again, and gazing at the remains of the bandages, body belts, tins of anti-insecticide, and so on. One was stirred. One got a faraway thrill, like the thrill of hearing a distant band. It reminded you of those exciting, busy, of course, anxious, but tremendous days, when the whole of Wickenham was one united family. And although one's husband was away, one had for a substitute three large photographs of him in uniform, one in a silver frame on the table by the bed, one in the regimental colours on the piano, and one in leather to match the dining room chairs. Cook strongly advised us to buy nothing here, went on Mrs. Williams. Cook! cried Mrs. Preen, greatly astounded. What can— Oh, Thomas Cook, of course, I mean, said Mrs. Williams, smiling brightly. Mrs. Preen subsided. But you will surely not depend upon the resources of a little Swiss village for clothes, she persisted, deeply interested, as usual, in other people's affairs. Oh, no, certainly not! Mrs. Williams was quite shocked. We shall get all we need in the way of clothes, from Harrods. That was what Mrs. Preen had wished to hear. That was as it should be. The great secret, my dear—she always knew the great secret—the great secret, and she put her hand on Mrs. Williams' arm and spoke very distinctly, is plenty of long-sleeved, woven combies. Thank you, ma'am. Both ladies started. There at their side was Mr. Wick, the nice grocer, holding Mrs. Preen's parcel by a loop of pink string. Dear me, how very awkward! He must have. He couldn't possibly not have. In the emotion of the moment, Mrs. Preen, thinking to gloss it over tactfully, nodded significantly at Mrs. Williams and said, accepting the parcel, and that is what I always tell my dear son. But this was too swift for Mrs. Williams to follow. Her embarrassment continued, and ordering the sardines, she just stopped herself from saying, three large pairs, Mr. Wick, please, instead of three large tins. Two. As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Williams and Aggie's happy release, which had made their scheme possible. Happy release, it was. After fifteen years in a wheelchair, passing in and out of the little house at Ealing, she had, to use the nurse's expression, just glided away at the last. Glided away. It sounded as though Aunt Aggie had taken the wheelchair with her. One saw her, in her absurd purple velvet, steering carefully among the stars and whimpering faintly, as was her terrestrial want, when the wheel jolted over a particularly large one. Aunt Aggie had left her dear niece Gwendolyn two hundred and fifty pounds. Not a vast sum by any means, but quite a nice little windfall. Gwendolyn, in that dashing mood that only women know, decided immediately to spend it. Part of it on the house, and the rest on a treat for Gerald. And the lawyer's letter happening to come at tea-time, together with a copy of the Sphere, full of the most fascinating, thrilling photographs of holiday makers at Morin and Samuritz and Montana, the question of the treat was settled. You would like to go to Switzerland, wouldn't you, Gerald? Very much. You're awfully good at skating and all that kind of thing, aren't you? Fairly. You do feel it's a thing to be done, don't you? How do you mean? But Gwendolyn only laughed. That was so like Gerald. She knew in his heart of hearts he was every bit as keen as she was. But he had this horror of showing his feelings, like all men. Gwendolyn understood it perfectly and wouldn't have had him different for the world. I'll write to cooks at once, and tell them we don't want to go to a very fashionable place, and we don't want one of those big jazzy hotels. I'd much prefer a really small, out-of-the-way place, where we could really go in for the sport seriously. This was quite untrue, but, like so many of Gwendolyn's statements, it was made to please Gerald. Don't you agree? Gerald lit his pipe for reply. As you have gathered, the Christian names of Mr. and Mrs. Williams were Gwendolyn and Gerald. How well they went together! They sounded married. Gwendolyn wrote them, bracketed, on bits of blotting paper, on the backs of old envelopes, on the store's catalogue. They looked married. Gerald, when they were on their honeymoon, had made an awfully good joke about them. He had said one morning, I say, has it ever struck you that both our names begin with G? Gwendolyn Gerald. You're a G? And he had pointed his razor at her, he was shaving, and I'm a G. Two Gs. GG. See? Oh, Gwendolyn saw immediately. It was really most witty. Quite brilliant. And so sweet and unexpected of him to have thought of it. GG. Oh, very good. She wished she could have told it to people. She had an idea that some people thought Gerald had not a very strong sense of humour. All the more precious for that reason, however. My dear, did you think of it at this moment? I mean, did you just make it up on the spot? Gerald, rubbing the lather with a finger, nodded. Flashed into my mind while I was soaping my face, he said seriously. It's a queer thing. And he dipped the razor into the pot of hot water. I've noticed it before. Shaving gives me ideas. It did indeed, thought Gwendolyn. End of section 19. Recording by Rob Marland in Switzerland. Section number 20 of The Dows Nest and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bavia. The Dows Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Weak Heart. Although it sounded all the year round, although it rang out sometimes as early as half past six in the morning, sometimes as late as half past ten at night, it was in the spring, when bangles, wild-legged patch just inside the gate was blue with flowers that that piano made the passerby not only stop talking, but slow down, pause, look suddenly. If they were men, grave, even stern. And if they were women, dreamy, even sorrowful. Tyrannus Street was beautiful in the spring. There was not a single house without its garden and trees and a plot of grass big enough to be called the lawn. Over the low-painted fences, you could see, as you ran by, whose daffies were out, whose wild snowdrop butter was over and who had the biggest hyacinths. So pink and white, the color of coconut eyes. But nobody had violets that grew that smelled in the spring-sun like bangles. Did they really smell like that? Or did you shut your eyes and lean over the fence because F. Eddie bangles piano. A little wind ruffles among the leaves like a joyful hand looking for the finest flowers, and the piano sounds gay, tender, laughing. Now a cloud like a swan flies across the sun, the violets shine cold like water, and a sudden questioning cry rings from Eddie bangles piano. Ah, if life must pass so quickly, why is the breath of these flowers so sweet? What is the meaning of this feeling of longing, of sweet trouble, of flying joy? Goodbye, farewell. The young bees lie half awake on the slender dandelions. Silver are the pink-tipped arrowy petals of the daisies. The new grass shakes in the light. Everything is beginning again. Marvelous is ever heavenly fair. Let me stay! Let me stay! pleads Eddie bangles piano. It is the afternoon, sunny and still. The blinds are down in the front to save the carpets, but upstairs the slats are open, and in the golden light little Mrs. Bengal is feeling onto her bed for the square bonnet box. She is flushed. She feels timid, excited like a girl. And now the tissue paper is parted. Her best bonnet, the one trimmed with a jet butterfly, which reposes on top, is lifted out and solemnly blown upon. Dipping down to the glass, she tries it with fingers that tremble. She twitches her dolmen round her slender shoulders, clasps her purse, and before leaving the bedroom, kneels down a moment to ask God's blessings on her goings out. And as she kneels there, quivering, she is rather like a butterfly herself, fanning her wings before the lar. When the door is open, the sound of the piano coming up through the silent house is almost frightening, so bold, so defiant, so reckless it rolls under Eddie's fingers. And just for a moment, the thought comes to Mrs. Bengal, and is gone again. But there is a stranger with Eddie in the drawing room, but a fantastic person, out of a book, a villain. It is very absurd. She flits across the hall, turns the door handle and confronts her flushed daughter. Eddie's hands drop from the keys. She squeezes them between her knees, her head is bent, her curls are fallen forward. She gazes at her mother with brilliant eyes. There is something painful in that glance, something very strange. It is dusky in the drawing room. The top of the piano is open. Eddie has been playing from memory. It's as though the air still tingles. I'm going, dear, said Mrs. Bengal softly, so softly as I can sigh. Yes, mother, came from Eddie. I don't expect I shall be long. Mrs. Bengal lingers. She would very much like just a word of sympathy, of understanding, even from Eddie to cheer her on her way. But Eddie murmurs. I'll put the kettle on in half an hour. Do, dear, Mrs. Bengal grasped at that even. A nervous little smile touched her lips. I expect I shall want my tea. But to that Eddie makes no reply. She frowns. She stretches out a hand, quickly unscrews one of the piano candlesticks, lifts off a pink china ring and screws all tight again. The ring has been rattling. As the front door bangs softly after her mother, Eddie and the piano seem to plunge together into deep, dark water, into waves that flow over both, relentless. She plays on desperately until her nose is white and her heart beats. It is her way of getting over her nervousness and her way, too, of praying. Would they accept her? Would she be allowed to go? Was it possible that in a week's time she would be one of Ms. Farmer's girls, wearing a red and blue headband, running up the broad steps leading to the big grey painted house that buzzed, that hummed as he went by? Their pew in church faced Ms. Farmer's borders. Would she have last known the names of the girls she had looked at so often? The pretty pale one with red hair, the dark one with a fringe, the fair one who held Ms. Farmer's hand during the sermon. But after all, it was Eddie's 14th birthday. Her father gave her a silver brooch with a bar of music, two crotchets, two quawbers and a minim headed by a very twisted treble clef. Her mother gave her blue satin gloves and two boxes for gloves and handkerchiefs. Hand painted the glove box with a sprig of gold roses tying up the capital G and the handkerchief box with a marvelously lifelike butterfly quivering on the capital Hedge. From the ends in, there was a tree at the corner of Terana Street and May Street. It grew so close to the pavement that the heavy boughs stretched over and on that part of the pavement there was always a fine sifting of minute twigs. But in the dusk, loverous parodying came into its shade as into a tent. There, however, longed they had been together, they greeted each other again with long kisses, with embraces that were sweet torture, agony to bear, agony to end. Eddie never knew that Roddy loved it. Roddy never knew that it meant anything to Eddie. Roddy, spruce, sleek with water, bumped his new bike down the wooden steps through the gate. He was off for a spin and looking at that tree dark in the glow of evening, he felt the tree was watching him. He wanted to do marvels, to astonish, to shock, to amaze it. Roddy had a complete new outfit for the occasion, a black shirt suit, a black tie, a straw hat so white it was almost silver, a dazzling white straw hat with a broad black band. Attached to the hat there was a thick guard that somehow reminded one of a fishing line and the little clasp on the brim was like a fly. He stood at the grey side, his legs apart, his hands loosely clasped, and watched Eddie being lowered into the grave, as a half-grown boy watches anything, a man at work or a bicycle accident or a chap cleaning a spring carriage wheel. But suddenly, as the man drew back, he gave a violent start, turned, muttered something to his father, and dashed away, so fast that people looked positively frightened through the symmetry. Down the avenue of dripping clay banks into Terana Road and started pelting for home, his suit was very tight and hot, it was like a dream. He kept his head down and his fists clenched, he couldn't look up, nothing could have made him look higher than the tops of the fences. What was he thinking of as he pressed along? On, on until the gate was reached, up the steps, in at the front door, through the hall, up to the drawing room. Eddie, called Roddy, Eddie, old girl, and he gave a low-strained squawk and cried, Eddie, and stared across at Eddie's piano. But cold, solemn, as if frozen, heavily the piano stared back at Roddy. Then it answered, but on its own behalf, on behalf of the house and the violet patch, the garden, the velvet tree at the corner of May Street, and all that was delightful. There is nobody here of that name, young man. End of Section 20. Section 21 of The Dove's Nest and Other Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Dove's Nest and Other Stories by Catherine Mansfield. Widowed. They came down to breakfast next morning, absolutely their own selves, rosy, fresh, and just chilled enough by the cold air blowing through the bedroom windows to be very ready for hot coffee. Nippy! That was Geraldine's word as she buttoned on her orange coat with pink-washed fingers. Don't you find it decidedly nippy? And her voice so matter-of-fact, so natural, sounded as though they had been married for years. Parting his hair with two brushes, marvellous feet for a woman to watch, in the little round mirror, he had replied, lightly clapping the brushes together, my dear, have you got enough on? And he, too, sounded as though well he knew from the experience of years her habit of clothing herself underneath in wisps of chiffon and two satin bows. Then they ran down to breakfast, laughing together and terribly startling the shy parlour-maid, who, after talking it over with Cook, had decided to be invisible until she was wrong for. Good morning, Nelly! I think we shall want more toast than that! said the smiling Geraldine as she hung over the breakfast table. She deliberated. Ask Cook to make us four more pieces, please. Marvellous! the parlour-maid thought it was. And as she closed the door, she heard the voice say, I do so hate to be short of toast, don't you? He was standing in the sunny window. Geraldine went up to him. She put her hand on his arm, and gave it a gentle squeeze. How pleasant it was to feel that rough man's tweed again! Ah, how pleasant! She rubbed her hand against it, touched it with her cheek, sniffed the smell. The window looked out onto flower beds, a tangle of Mickelmus daisies, late dailiers hanging heavy, and shaggy little asters. Then there came a lawn strewn with yellow leaves, with a broad path beyond, and a row of gold-fluttering trees. An old gardener, in woollen mitts, was sweeping the path, brushing the leaves into a neat little heap. Now the broom tucked in his arm, he fumbled in his coat-pocket, brought out some matches, and scooping a hole in the leaves, he set fire to them. Such lovely blue smoke came breathing into the air through those dry leaves. There was something so calm and orderly in the way the pile burned, that it was a pleasure to watch. The old gardener stumped away and came back with a handful of withered twigs. He flung them on and stood by, and little light flames began to flicker. I do think, said Geraldine, I do think there is nothing nicer than a real satisfactory fire. Jolly, isn't it? he murmured back, and they went to their first breakfast. Just over a year ago, thirteen months, to be exact, she had been standing before the dining-room window of the little house in Sloan Street. It looked over the railed gardens. Breakfast was over, cleared away, and done with. She had a fat bunch of letters in her hand that she meant to answer, snugly, over the fire. But before settling down, the autumn sun, the freshness had drawn her to the window. Such a perfect morning for the row. Jimmy had gone riding. Goodbye, dear thing. Goodbye, Jerry Mine. And then the morning kiss, quick and firm. He looked so handsome in his riding-kit. She imagined him as she stood there, riding. Geraldine was not very good at imagining things. But there was mist, a thud of hooves, and Jimmy's moustache was damp. From the garden there sounded the creak of a gardener's barrow. An old man came into sight with a load of leaves and a broom lying across. He stopped. He began to sweep. What enormous tufts of irises grew in London Gardens, mused Geraldine. Why? And now the smoke of a real fire ascended. There is nothing nicer, she thought, than a real satisfactory fire. Just at that moment the telephone bell rang. Geraldine sat down at Jimmy's desk to answer it. It was Major Hunter. Good morning, Major. You're a very early bird. Good morning, Mrs. Howard. Yes, I am. Geraldine made a little surprised face at herself. How odd he sounded. Mrs. Howard, I'm coming round to see you. Now, I'm taking a taxi. Please don't go out, and—and— The voice stammered. Please don't let your servants go out. Pardon? This last was so very peculiar, though the whole thing had been peculiar enough that Geraldine couldn't believe what she heard. But he was gone. He had rung off. What on earth? And putting down the receiver, she took up a pencil and drew what she always drew when she sat down before a piece of blotting paper—the behind of a little cat, with whiskers and tail complete. Geraldine must have drawn that little cat hundreds of times, all over the world, in hotels, in clubs, at steamer desks, waiting at the bank. The little cat was her sign, her mark. She had copied it from a little girl at school when she thought it most wonderful, and she never tried anything else. She was not very good at drawing. This particular cat was drawn with an extra firm pen, and even its whiskers looked surprised. Not to let the servants go out. But she had never heard anything so peculiar in her life. She must have made a mistake. Geraldine couldn't help a little giggle of amusement. And why should he tell her he was taking a taxi? And why, above all, should he be coming to see her at that hour of the morning? Then, it came over her, like a flash she remembered Major Hunter's mania for old furniture. They had been discussing it at the Carlton the last time they lunched together. And he had said something to Jimmy about some... Jacobean or Queen Anne. Geraldine knew nothing about these things. Something or other. Could he possibly be bringing it round? But, of course, he must be. And that explained the remark about the servants. He wanted them to help getting it into the house. What a bore! Geraldine did hope it would tone in. And, really, she must say she thought Major Hunter was taking a good deal for granted to produce a thing that size at that hour of the day without a word of warning. They hardly knew him well enough for that. Why make such a mystery of it, too? Geraldine hated mysteries. But she had heard his head was rather troublesome at times, ever since the Somme affair. Perhaps this was one of his bad days. In that case, a pity Jimmy was not back. She rang. Mullins answered. Oh, Mullins, I am expecting Major Hunter in a few moments. He's bringing something rather heavy. He may want you to help with it. And Cook better be ready, too. Geraldine's manner was slightly lofty with her servants. She enjoyed carrying things off with a high hand. All the same Mullins did look surprised. She seemed to hover for a moment before she went out. It annoyed Geraldine greatly. What was there to be surprised at? What could have been simpler, she thought, sitting down to her batch of letters, and the fire, and the clock and her pen began to whisper together. There was the taxi, making an enormous noise at the door. She thought she heard the driver's voice, too, arguing. It took her a long moment to clasp her right in case, and to get up out of the low chair. The bell rang. She went straight to the dining-room door. And there was Major Hunter in his riding-kit, coming quickly towards her, and behind him, through the open door at the bottom of the steps, she saw something big, something grey. It was an ambulance. There's been an accident! cried Geraldine sharply. Mrs. Howard, Major Hunter ran forward. He put out his icy cold hand and wrung hers. You'll be brave, won't you? he said. He pleaded. But, of course, she would be brave. Is it serious? Major Hunter nodded gravely. He said the one word. Yes. Very serious? Now he raised his head. He looked her full in the eyes. She had never realised until that moment that he was extraordinarily handsome, though in a melodrama kind of way. It's as bad as it can be, Mrs. Howard, said Major Hunter simply. But go in there, he said hastily, and he almost pushed her into her own dining-room. We must bring him in. Where can we— Can he be taken upstairs? asked Geraldine. Yes, yes, of course. Major Hunter looked at her so strangely, so painfully. There's his dressing-room, said Geraldine. It's on the first floor. I'll lead the way. And she put her hand on the Major's arm. It's quite all right, Major, she said. I'm not going to break down. And she actually smiled—a confident, brilliant smile. To her amazement, as Major Hunter turned away, he burst out with— Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! Poor man. He was quite overcome. Brandy afterwards, thought Geraldine. Not now, of course. It was a painful moment when she heard those measured, deliberate steps in the hall. But Geraldine, realizing this was not the moment, and there was nothing to be gained by it, refrained from looking. This way, Major— She skimmed on in front, up the stairs, along the passage. She flung open the door of Jimmy's gay, living, breathing dressing-room, and stood to one side. For Major Hunter, for the two stretcher-bearers. Only then, she realized that it must be a scalp wound, some injury to the head. For there was nothing to be seen of Jimmy, the sheet was pulled right over.