garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall.
And her clear, light voice said, “It’s William,” or “Hillo, William!” or “So William has come!” He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek.
The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes.
“What is it, Isabel? What is it?” he said tenderly. They were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes.
“What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks.
“Ah, you know!” He stood in the middle of the strange room and he felt a stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him.
“Oh, William!” she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush. “Please! Please don’t be so dreadfully stuffy and—
