trace. He was like a flower in the garden, trembling in the wind of life,
and then gone, leaving nothing to show. As an adjunct, as an accessory,
he was perfect. Many a woman would have adored to have him about her all
her life, the most beautiful and desirable of all her possessions. But
Winifred belonged to another school.

The years went by, and instead of coming more to grips with life, he
relaxed more. He was of a subtle, sensitive, passionate nature. But he
simply _would_ not give himself to what Winifred called life, _Work_. No,
he would not go into the world and work for money. No, he just would not.
If Winifred liked to live beyond their small income--well, it was her
look-out.

And Winifred did not really want him to go out into the world to work for
money. Money became, alas, a word like a firebrand between them, setting
them both aflame with anger. But that is because we must talk in symbols.
Winifred did not really care about money. She did not care whether he
earned or did not earn anything. Only she knew she was dependent on her
father for three-fourths of the money spent for herself and her children,
that she let that be the _casus belli_, the drawn weapon between herself
and Egbert.

What did she want--what did she want? Her mother once said to her, with
that characteristic touch of irony: 'Well, dear, if it is your fate to
consider the lilies, that toil not, neither do they spin, that is one
destiny among many others, and perhaps not so unpleasant as most. Why do
you take it amiss, my child?'

The mother was subtler than her children, they very rarely knew how to
answer her. So Winifred was only more confused. It was not a question of