amount of work he got through, she never caught him doing any in this
house of theirs, chosen because it was more than half a mile away from
the College which held the 'dear young clowns,' as he called them, of
whom he was tutor.

He did not turn--it was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not
absolutely necessary--but she felt that he was aware of her. She came to
the window seat and sat down. He looked round at that, and said: "Ah!"

It was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with
the exception of certain portions of the classics, it was hardly his
custom to admire. But she knew that she was looking her best sitting
there, her really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown
hair, and brightening her deep-set, ice-green eyes under their black
lashes. It was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so
good-looking. It would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt
that she ruffled her husband's fastidiousness. Even so, her cheekbones
were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character
which did not go with his--the dash of desperation, of vividness, that
lack of a certain English smoothness, which always annoyed him.

"Harold!"--she would never quite flatten her r's--"I want to go to the
mountains this year."

The mountains! She had not seen them since that season at San Martino di
Castrozza twelve years ago, which had ended in her marrying him.

"Nostalgia!"

"I don't know what that means--I am homesick. Can we go?"