Of course this brought out from Paul and little Mark, hanging over her
shoulder and knee, the to-be-expected shouts of, "Oh, let's see it! What
is it?"

Marise perceived that they scented something fine and exciting such as
Mother was always trying to keep from them, like one man choking another
over the edge of a cliff, or a woman lying on her back with the blood
all running from her throat. Whenever pictures like that were in any of
the magazines that came into the house, Marise took them away from the
little boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made them
extremely keen not to miss any chance to catch a glimpse of such a one.
She could see that they thought it queer, there being anything so
exciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographical
picture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things that
Father and Mother had seen, so long ago. But you never could tell. The
way Mother had spoken, the sound of her voice, the way she had flapped
down the page quick, the little boys' practised ears and eyes had
identified all that to a certainty with the actions that accompanied
pictures she didn't want them to see. So, of course, they clamored, "Oh
_yes_, Mother, just one look!"

Elly as usual said nothing, looking up into Mother's face. Marise was
extremely annoyed. She was glad that Elly was the only one who was
looking at her, because, of course, dear old Mr. Welles' unobservant
eyes didn't count. She was glad that Mr. Marsh kept his gaze downward on
the photograph marked "Rome from the Pincian Gardens," although through
the top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel the
racing, inquiring speculations whirling about. Nor had she any right to
resent that. She supposed people had a right to what went on in their