“Yes,” he sighed, dropping back into his chair, “my wits do wander. Look at my wheatfield, over there on the skyline. Isn’t it lovely? And now I won’t be able to harvest it. Sometimes I wonder whether I’ll ever finish anything I begin.”
Enid put the chessmen back into their box. “Now that you are better, you must stop feeling blue. Father says that with your trouble people are always depressed.”
Claude shook his head slowly, as it lay against the back of the chair. “No, it’s not that. It’s having so much time to think that makes me blue. You see, Enid, I’ve never yet done anything that gave me any satisfaction. I must be good for something. When I lie still and think, I wonder whether my life has been happening to me or to somebody else. It doesn’t seem to have much connection with me. I haven’t made much of a start.”
“But you are not twenty-two yet. You have plenty of time to start. Is that what you are thinking about all the time!” She shook her finger at him.
“I think about two things all the time. That is one of them.” Mrs. Wheeler came in with Claude’s four o’clock milk; it was his first day downstairs.
When they were children, playing by the mill-dam, Claude had seen the future as a luminous vagueness in which he and Enid would always do things together. Then there came a time when he wanted to do everything with Ernest, when girls were disturbing and a bother, and he pushed all that into the distance, knowing that some day he must reckon with it again.
Now he told himself he had always known Enid would come back; and she had come on that afternoon when she entered his drug-smelling room and let in the sunlight. She
