He lowered the box with a little jerk on to the spread-out newspaper
on the floor. Soil scattered.

"Sweep it up," he said to Millicent.

His ear was lingering over the sudden, clutching hiss of the tree-
boughs.

A stark white incandescent light filled the room and made everything
sharp and hard. In the open fire-place a hot fire burned red. All
was scrupulously clean and perfect. A baby was cooing in a rocker-
less wicker cradle by the hearth. The mother, a slim, neat woman with
dark hair, was sewing a child's frock. She put this aside, rose, and
began to take her husband's dinner from the oven.

"You stopped confabbing long enough tonight," she said.

"Yes," he answered, going to the back kitchen to wash his hands.

In a few minutes he came and sat down to his dinner. The doors were
shut close, but there was a draught, because the settling of the mines
under the house made the doors not fit. Aaron moved his chair, to get
out of the draught. But he still sat in his shirt and trousers.

He was a good-looking man, fair, and pleasant, about thirty-two years
old. He did not talk much, but seemed to think about something. His
wife resumed her sewing. She was acutely aware of her husband, but he
seemed not very much aware of her.

"What were they on about today, then?" she said.