fancies. Still
Now she was talking about the new sundial; where they were going to put it. Nasturtiums were to be planted round the foot, she said, because nasturtiums grew so fast and made a show. Her mind had a curious way of edging away from the immediate future. Next summer! Why, she would have other things besides sundials to think of then. What a funny little woman she was!
"I wonder you never thought of having a sundial before,"she insisted."Did Anybody ever think of it?"
"Well, no,"he said,"I don't think it ever occurred to me."
"Or Anybody?"
"No, nor anybody."
She looked up at the house, silhouetted against the evening sky."It's funny living in such a new house,—I never had. I wonder who will come after us."
"We're not likely to move for some time,"he said sharply.
"Oh no—only if we did. It seems so very much our house; I can't imagine anybody else at home here, we have made it so entirely—you and I. What was it like the first month or two?"
"Very damp,"he said, now wishing to return to the sundial.
"Did you have the drawing-room very pretty?"
"Oh yes, there were a great many curtains and things. I had to take down all the pictures, they were going mouldy on the walls. It was always a pretty room, even
with nothing in it at all. But it's nothing without you in it, Pussy."
"You didn't miss me for a long time,"she said, with her cheek against his.
"Always,"he said,"always, always, always."
"Oh no,"she said seriously,"you know you couldn't have been lonely."
"Lonely —I was wretched!"
"Oh, hush!"she cried with a start, putting her hand over his lips.
"Anyway"—he kissed her fingers—"nobody is lonely now. Come into the house."
She hung back on his arm a little but did not again protest; they went in by a glass door into the kitchen passage. As they passed through the archway into the hall he put out his hand to sweep something aside; then smiled shamefacedly. It was funny how he always expected that portiere. She had declared that a draught came through from the kitchen, and insisted on putting it up. She had filled the house with draperies, and Pussy had taken them down. When the portiere was there he had always been 148
forgetting it, and darting through to change his boots in the evening would envelop his head and shoulders ridiculously in the musty velvet folds. Funny how he could never accustom himself to the changes; the house as it had been was always in his mind, more present than the house as it v:as. He could never get used to the silence half-way up the stairs, where the grandfather clock used to be. Often he found himself half-way across the hall to see what was the matter with it; it had been a tiresome clock, more trouble than it was worth, with,a most reverberating tick. Pussy had put a bracket of china there in its place.
Because it was a chilly autumn evening they had lighted a fire in the drawing-room, the curtains were drawn; what an evening they would spend together after supper! An armchair had been pulled forward and a workbasket gaped beside it; he wondered what Pussy had been sewing. He stood in the hall, looking in through the open door, and remembered Her making baby-clothes by the fire and holding them up in her fingers for him to see. Sometimes he had 149
barely raised his eyes from his book—she had never been able to understand his passion for self-education. As she finished the things she had taken them upstairs and locked them away, and sometimes she would put dow^n her sewing and rattle her work-box maddeningly, and look at him across the fire and sigh. ... It would be wonderful to watch Pussy sewing. He could hear her moving about in the hall—such a Pussy!— hanging up his overcoat, then opening the oak chest and rattling things about in it for all the world as though she were after a mouse.
"I found some pictures,"she said, coming up behind him with a stack of something in her arms."Come into the drawing-room and we'll look."The young fire gave
Now she was talking about the new sundial; where they were going to put it. Nasturtiums were to be planted round the foot, she said, because nasturtiums grew so fast and made a show. Her mind had a curious way of edging away from the immediate future. Next summer! Why, she would have other things besides sundials to think of then. What a funny little woman she was!
"I wonder you never thought of having a sundial before,"she insisted."Did Anybody ever think of it?"
"Well, no,"he said,"I don't think it ever occurred to me."
"Or Anybody?"
"No, nor anybody."
She looked up at the house, silhouetted against the evening sky."It's funny living in such a new house,—I never had. I wonder who will come after us."
"We're not likely to move for some time,"he said sharply.
"Oh no—only if we did. It seems so very much our house; I can't imagine anybody else at home here, we have made it so entirely—you and I. What was it like the first month or two?"
"Very damp,"he said, now wishing to return to the sundial.
"Did you have the drawing-room very pretty?"
"Oh yes, there were a great many curtains and things. I had to take down all the pictures, they were going mouldy on the walls. It was always a pretty room, even
with nothing in it at all. But it's nothing without you in it, Pussy."
"You didn't miss me for a long time,"she said, with her cheek against his.
"Always,"he said,"always, always, always."
"Oh no,"she said seriously,"you know you couldn't have been lonely."
"Lonely —I was wretched!"
"Oh, hush!"she cried with a start, putting her hand over his lips.
"Anyway"—he kissed her fingers—"nobody is lonely now. Come into the house."
She hung back on his arm a little but did not again protest; they went in by a glass door into the kitchen passage. As they passed through the archway into the hall he put out his hand to sweep something aside; then smiled shamefacedly. It was funny how he always expected that portiere. She had declared that a draught came through from the kitchen, and insisted on putting it up. She had filled the house with draperies, and Pussy had taken them down. When the portiere was there he had always been 148
forgetting it, and darting through to change his boots in the evening would envelop his head and shoulders ridiculously in the musty velvet folds. Funny how he could never accustom himself to the changes; the house as it had been was always in his mind, more present than the house as it v:as. He could never get used to the silence half-way up the stairs, where the grandfather clock used to be. Often he found himself half-way across the hall to see what was the matter with it; it had been a tiresome clock, more trouble than it was worth, with,a most reverberating tick. Pussy had put a bracket of china there in its place.
Because it was a chilly autumn evening they had lighted a fire in the drawing-room, the curtains were drawn; what an evening they would spend together after supper! An armchair had been pulled forward and a workbasket gaped beside it; he wondered what Pussy had been sewing. He stood in the hall, looking in through the open door, and remembered Her making baby-clothes by the fire and holding them up in her fingers for him to see. Sometimes he had 149
barely raised his eyes from his book—she had never been able to understand his passion for self-education. As she finished the things she had taken them upstairs and locked them away, and sometimes she would put dow^n her sewing and rattle her work-box maddeningly, and look at him across the fire and sigh. ... It would be wonderful to watch Pussy sewing. He could hear her moving about in the hall—such a Pussy!— hanging up his overcoat, then opening the oak chest and rattling things about in it for all the world as though she were after a mouse.
"I found some pictures,"she said, coming up behind him with a stack of something in her arms."Come into the drawing-room and we'll look."The young fire gave
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