step and threw them out on the grass. When she returned he was reading sonorously:
"'We soon took a turn to the left, toward a bridge of many arches across the Guadiana. . . . Its banks were white with linen which the washerwomen had spread out to dry in the sun, which was shining brightly; I heard their singing at a great distance, and the theme seemed to be the praises of the river where they were toiling, for as I approached I could distinguish "Guadiana, Guadiana," which reverberated far and wide, pronounced by the clear and strong voices in chorus of many a dark-cheeked maid and matron.'"
She went into his room and reappeared carrying his laundry bag. She took it to the kitchen, and he heard her talking to the Scotch maid. She returned and put a slip of paper into his hand.
"Your laundry list," she said. "You had better look it over when it comes back. They're very careless."
He crushed the neatly written list in his hand.
"Why, oh, why," he said, "can't my washing be done on the bank of a river by a singing dark-cheeked maid or matron? Why was I pitchforked into this prosaic life?"
"I dare say it can," she returned absently, "if you go far enough. . . . I don't know why, I am sure."
She began to take things from the desk. From her writing folio she turned out some Canadian stamps.
"Here are stamps I shan't need. On the blotter."
"Oh, all right. Thanks."
He looked at her half-quizzically, half-reproachfully, then impulsively got up and went to the desk. He smoothed out the laundry list, then, licking the stamps one by one, he stuck them in a fantastic border round the edge. He discovered a drawing-pin and pinned the paper to the wall.
"A memorial," he said, tragically.
She did not hear him. She was gone into her room.
He followed her to the door and stood looking in. She had changed into a thinner dress; her cheeks were flushed.
