terrors. . . . He was off his balance, decidedly.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked.

He explained, elaborately, that he was laughing at the
recollection of an old woman in the train, an old woman with a lot
of bundles, who couldn't find her ticket. . . . But somehow, in
the telling, the humor of the story seemed to evaporate, and he
felt the conventionality of her smile. He glanced at his watch,
"Isn't it time to dress?"

She rose with serene reluctance. "It's a pity to go in. The
garden looks so lovely."

They lingered side by side, surveying their domain. There was not
space in it, at this hour, for the shadow of the elm-tree in the
angle of the hedge; it crossed the lawn, cut the flower-border in
two, and ran up the side of the house to the nursery window. She
bent to flick a caterpillar from the honey-suckle; then, as they
turned indoors, "If we mean to go on the yacht next Sunday," she
suggested, "oughtn't you to let Mr. Flamel know?"

Glennard's exasperation deflected suddenly. "Of course I shall
let him know. You always seem to imply that I'm going to do
something rude to Flamel."

The words reverberated through her silence; she had a way of thus
leaving one space in which to contemplate one's folly at arm's
length. Glennard turned on his heel and went upstairs. As he
dropped into a chair before his dressing-table he said to himself