locks, clothed in the sombre grandeur of their winter foliage, threw shadows of an intense, translucent blueness. And in the hard bright intensity of that northern ether, every smallest twig was bitten against its background as though with acid. An atmosphere hateful to those who see it in alien loneliness, but of the essence and goodness of life to the native born.
When Eden opened his eyes and turned toward her, she was looking out on this scene. He thought there was a frightened look in her eyes. A faint sound of music came from Uncle Nick's room. He was playing his piano as he often did at this hour.
"Pheasant."
"Yes?"
"You look odd. Rather frightened."
"I'm not a bit frightened."
"Not of me, of course. But of yourself?"
"Yes, I am rather frightened of myself, and I don't even know why. I believe it's that wild-looking sky. In a minute it will be dark and so cold. You'll need a fire here."
"I am on fire, Pheasant."
He found her hand and held it. He asked: "Do you think Alayne loves me any more?"
"No, I don't think she does. And you don't deserve it—her love, I mean."
"I don't believe I ever had it. It was my poetry she loved, not me. Do you think she loves—Renny?"
She stared at him, startled. "I'd never thought of that. Perhaps she does."
"A nice mix-up."
"Well, I should not blame Alayne. Here she is pitch-forked into this weird family, with a husband who is absolutely devoted to himself, and a most remarkable-looking and affectionate brother-in-law."
