own life, or his. He never spoke of it, but in every other way he showed how important she was to him. The quiet hours they spent together were consoling to Teresa. Gerald's deep melancholy was like the effect of an autumn evening, of rainy woods, dark gliding streams, and the dull sunset gleam of defeat. He was a beaten man, but in many moods his sadness was more congenial to Teresa than Basil's buoyant optimism. Deep within her was a conviction that life, if it must be taken seriously, was a desperate business. Gerald seemed to her to fail not ignobly, for he at least had vision. He was one of the few people whom she could imagine existing after death. The world had obviously no use for him, but if there could conceivably be a better world, she thought Gerald suited to inhabit it. As a frivolous expression of this idea she modelled one day a little statuette of him, with wings, a halo round his bald forehead and a harp in his hand, which made him merry, for the first time since his illness.
••••••
On an evening when February was melting into March in a wild storm of snow, sleet, and wind, Basil came in just before dinner and found Teresa standing by the window. She turned a ghostly face upon him.
"The baby is going to be born to-night," she said. "I've sent for the doctor and the nurse."
