idea of looking far, far ahead and not seeing any end. It frightened
me. Ever since father died, I've been like that--even in little
things, even in tangible things. When we go to the seaside in the
summer I never can bear to look straight across the sea. That gives me
the idea of always--of long, long miles and miles without a turn or a
stop. I want to think every day, every hour, that what I am doing
can't go on--mustchange. It suffocates me to think otherwise. I want
to jump out, to scream."

Then she gave that laugh that seldom failed to come to her relief, and
said: "It's a sort of claustrophobia--isn't that the word?--on a
universal scale. But why is it? And why am I suddenly changed now? Why
does the thought of always, always, endless always with you, bring a
sort of--don't laugh, dear--a sort of bliss, peace?"

This poor George of mine, who was no deep thinker, nevertheless had
the reason pat. He said:

"I think because the past has all been unhappy and because this, you
know, means happiness."

She gave a little sigh; told him: "Yes, that's it--happiness."



V.

And now they fell to making plans as mating birds build nests. Here a
bit of straw and there a tuft of moss; here a feather, there a shred
of wool--George would do this and George would do that; here the house