out a fitful light, and they knelt down on the hearthrug and put their heads together over the pictures."Nursery pictures,"said Puss? —she must have been up in the attic, he wished he had cleared the contents of it oul of his house. He stared at the smiling shepherdesses, farmer-boys and woolly lambs"They are nursery pictures, aren't they
Martin? I didn't know you'd actually bought the pictures. Had—had Anybody chosen the curtains, too? Did you get as far as that?"
"I don't know,"he said."I don't really, Pussy, I don't remember."
"And did you take it all to pieces again? Did you alone, or did Anybody help you? I wonder you didn't leave it, Martin; you didn't want the room for anything else. But I suppose it would have made you sad, or other people sad."
"Have you done anything to the room yet. Pussy?"
"I just pulled the furniture about a little, then I went to look for a fender in the attic and found these pictures. I don't know if there were any curtains, Martin; shall I buy some more? I saw some cretonnes specially for that kind of room, all over clowns and rabbits and little scarlet moons."
"I'll bring some patterns—or come up to town some day and we'll choose them together."
She did not answer, she was looking at the pictures.
"Martin, was that one going to have been called Martin too, Martin Ralph?"
"I don't know, it hadn't been decided.'*
"Didn't Anybody choose a name for him, although he didn't live? He was a real person."
"It had never been decided, Pussy. I'm going to get you a longer sofa, so that you can put your feet up. We can choose it when we choose the chintzes."
"Oh, you mustn't. This one is very comfortable; I never sit in it, but that's because I just don't take to it."
"I hate the look of it."
"Well, get rid of it,"she said, smiling,"as neither of us wants a sofa. Did Anybody ever sit on that one?"
As far as he remembered, it was the only thing in the room that she had ever sat on. She had never looked comfortable on it. She had a way of sitting with her head at the darkest end and straining her eyes over her work, then blinking up at him when he spoke. Of course she ought to have worn glasses; he hated women in glasses, and she knew it, but her short-sightedness annoyed
him and he had frequently said so. She used to come and meet him at the station—he came back by the 6.5 in those days, sometimes by the 6.43—and it had so greatly irritated him to watch her grimacing and screwing up her eyes at the carriages that he had slipped through the barrier behind her and pretended when she came home that he had not known she was there. Perhaps the little chap would have been short-sighted if he had lived. . . .
The maid came in to say that supper was ready, and they went into the dining-room. Here the curtains were undrawn and they could see the lights twinkling out in the windows of the other houses. He often felt as though those windows were watching him; their gaze was hostile, full of comment and criticism. The sound of the wind among the bushes in the garden was like whispered comparisons. He said they saw a good deal too much of the neighbours, and Pussy said she liked the friendly lights."I wouldn't like to be shut in all round, but I couldn't live without any people. The next-doors have been so kind. She came in with some
plants this morning, and stayed talking quite a long time, and said if there was ever anything she could do. . . . She spoke so nicely of you, Martin. She's known you by sight ever since you were a little boy."
"Oh, it's funny to have lived in the same place all one's life. All these people—well, they're sometimes rather tiresome."
"Tiresome?"
"One gets tired of their being the same. Would you like to travel, Pussy?"
"Oh, Martin!"Her eyes grew wistful; the prospect seemed remote.
"Well, we will,"he said, with energy. "We'll go to Switzerland—some summer."
"I'd rather go to Italy—Venice."
"Oh, not Venice. I don't think you'd care for Venice. It's
Martin? I didn't know you'd actually bought the pictures. Had—had Anybody chosen the curtains, too? Did you get as far as that?"
"I don't know,"he said."I don't really, Pussy, I don't remember."
"And did you take it all to pieces again? Did you alone, or did Anybody help you? I wonder you didn't leave it, Martin; you didn't want the room for anything else. But I suppose it would have made you sad, or other people sad."
"Have you done anything to the room yet. Pussy?"
"I just pulled the furniture about a little, then I went to look for a fender in the attic and found these pictures. I don't know if there were any curtains, Martin; shall I buy some more? I saw some cretonnes specially for that kind of room, all over clowns and rabbits and little scarlet moons."
"I'll bring some patterns—or come up to town some day and we'll choose them together."
She did not answer, she was looking at the pictures.
"Martin, was that one going to have been called Martin too, Martin Ralph?"
"I don't know, it hadn't been decided.'*
"Didn't Anybody choose a name for him, although he didn't live? He was a real person."
"It had never been decided, Pussy. I'm going to get you a longer sofa, so that you can put your feet up. We can choose it when we choose the chintzes."
"Oh, you mustn't. This one is very comfortable; I never sit in it, but that's because I just don't take to it."
"I hate the look of it."
"Well, get rid of it,"she said, smiling,"as neither of us wants a sofa. Did Anybody ever sit on that one?"
As far as he remembered, it was the only thing in the room that she had ever sat on. She had never looked comfortable on it. She had a way of sitting with her head at the darkest end and straining her eyes over her work, then blinking up at him when he spoke. Of course she ought to have worn glasses; he hated women in glasses, and she knew it, but her short-sightedness annoyed
him and he had frequently said so. She used to come and meet him at the station—he came back by the 6.5 in those days, sometimes by the 6.43—and it had so greatly irritated him to watch her grimacing and screwing up her eyes at the carriages that he had slipped through the barrier behind her and pretended when she came home that he had not known she was there. Perhaps the little chap would have been short-sighted if he had lived. . . .
The maid came in to say that supper was ready, and they went into the dining-room. Here the curtains were undrawn and they could see the lights twinkling out in the windows of the other houses. He often felt as though those windows were watching him; their gaze was hostile, full of comment and criticism. The sound of the wind among the bushes in the garden was like whispered comparisons. He said they saw a good deal too much of the neighbours, and Pussy said she liked the friendly lights."I wouldn't like to be shut in all round, but I couldn't live without any people. The next-doors have been so kind. She came in with some
plants this morning, and stayed talking quite a long time, and said if there was ever anything she could do. . . . She spoke so nicely of you, Martin. She's known you by sight ever since you were a little boy."
"Oh, it's funny to have lived in the same place all one's life. All these people—well, they're sometimes rather tiresome."
"Tiresome?"
"One gets tired of their being the same. Would you like to travel, Pussy?"
"Oh, Martin!"Her eyes grew wistful; the prospect seemed remote.
"Well, we will,"he said, with energy. "We'll go to Switzerland—some summer."
"I'd rather go to Italy—Venice."
"Oh, not Venice. I don't think you'd care for Venice. It's
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