Meanwhile the summer dimmed. The autumn winds went sighing through the
woods, leaves turned to golden red, and the evenings were drawing in
with cozy shadows before the first sign of anything seriously untoward
made its appearance. It came then with a flat, decided kind of violence
that indicated mature preparation beforehand. It was not impulsive nor
ill-considered. In a fashion it seemed expected, and indeed inevitable.
For within a fortnight of their annual change to the little village of
Seillans above St. Raphael--a change so regular for the past ten years
that it was not even discussed between them--David Bittacy abruptly
refused to go.

Thompson had laid the tea-table, prepared the spirit lamp beneath the
urn, pulled down the blinds in that swift and silent way she had, and
left the room. The lamps were still unlit. The fire-light shone on the
chintz armchairs, and Boxer lay asleep on the black horse-hair rug. Upon
the walls the gilt picture frames gleamed faintly, the pictures
themselves indistinguishable. Mrs. Bittacy had warmed the teapot and was
in the act of pouring the water in to heat the cups when her husband,
looking up from his chair across the hearth, made the abrupt
announcement:

"My dear," he said, as though following a train of thought of which she
only heard this final phrase, "it's really quite impossible for me to
go."

And so abrupt, inconsequent, it sounded that she at first misunderstood.
She thought he meant to go out into the garden or the woods. But her
heart leaped all the same. The tone of his voice was ominous.

"Of course not," she answered, "it would be _most_ unwise. Why should