The curate looked a trifle disturbed. He feared that something
unpleasant had happened, and that his assistance might be
required before breakfast.

"It is going to be a warm day," he said politely, and stooped for
the newspaper, as a delicate hint.

"Where does--?" began Gissing, quivering; but at that moment,
looking round, he saw that it had hoaxed him again. Far away, on
his own hill the other side of the village, shone the evasive
colour. As usual, he had been too impetuous. He had not watched
it while he ran; it had circled round behind him. He resolved to
be more methodical.

The curate gave him a blank to fill in, relative to baptizing the
children, and was relieved to see him hasten away.

But all this was some time ago. As he walked the meadow path,
Gissing suddenly realized that lately he had had little
opportunity for pursuing blue horizons. Since Fuji's departure
every moment, from dawn to dusk, was occupied. In three weeks he
had had three different servants, but none of them would stay.
The place was too lonely, they said, and with three puppies the
work was too hard. The washing, particularly was a horrid
problem. Inexperienced as a parent, Gissing was probably too
proud: he wanted the children always to look clean and soigne.
The last cook had advertised herself as a General Houseworker,
afraid of nothing; but as soon as she saw the week's wash in the
hamper (including twenty-one grimy rompers), she telephoned to
the station for a taxi. Gissing wondered why it was that the