in a bonnet. The garden was prospering absurdly. Seed they had
sown at random--amid laughing counter-charges of incompetence--had
shot up in fragrant defiance of their blunders. He smiled to see
the clematis unfolding its punctual wings about the porch. The
tiny lawn was smooth as a shaven cheek, and a crimson rambler
mounted to the nursery-window of a baby who never cried. A breeze
shook the awning above the tea-table, and his wife, as he drew
near, could be seen bending above a kettle that was just about to
boil. So vividly did the whole scene suggest the painted bliss of
a stage setting, that it would have been hardly surprising to see
her step forward among the flowers and trill out her virtuous
happiness from the veranda-rail.

The stale heat of the long day in town, the dusty promiscuity of
the suburban train were now but the requisite foil to an evening
of scented breezes and tranquil talk. They had been married more
than a year, and each home-coming still reflected the freshness of
their first day together. If, indeed, their happiness had a flaw,
it was in resembling too closely the bright impermanence of their
surroundings. Their love as yet was but the gay tent of holiday-
makers.

His wife looked up with a smile. The country life suited her, and
her beauty had gained depth from a stillness in which certain
faces might have grown opaque.

"Are you very tired?" she asked, pouring his tea.

"Just enough to enjoy this." He rose from the chair in which he
had thrown himself and bent over the tray for his cream. "You've