her gown. Robin's face was smooth and blank; he pretended to be absorbed
in his food, so as not to look at Prissie. It was as if Prissie's old
restlessness had grown into that ceaseless jerking and twitching. And her
eyes fastened on Robin; they clung to him and wouldn't let him go. She
kept on asking him to do things for her. "Robin, you might get me my
shawl;" and Robin would go and get the shawl and put it round her.
Whenever he did anything for her Prissie's face would settle down into a
quivering, deep content.

At nine o'clock he lifted her out of her wheel chair. Harriett saw his
stoop, and the taut, braced power of his back as he lifted. Prissie lay in
his arms with rigid limbs hanging from loose attachments, inert, like a
doll. As he carried her upstairs to bed her face had a queer, exalted look
of pleasure and of triumph.

Harriett and Robin sat alone together in his study.

"How long is it since we've seen each other?"

"Five years, Robin."

"It isn't. It can't be."

"It is."

"I suppose it is. But I can't believe it. I can't believe I'm married. I
can't believe Prissie's ill. It doesn't seem real with you sitting there."

"Nothing's changed, Robin, except that you're more serious."