LITMIR.BIZ

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than any of his daughters, dear old gentleman. Now I wonder that you, Miss Allan, who use your eyes so much, don’t take up knitting in the evenings. You’d find it such a relief, I should say—such a rest to the eyes—and the bazaars are so glad of things.” Her voice dropped into the smooth half-conscious tone of the expert knitter; the words came gently one after another. “As much as I do I can always dispose of, which is a comfort, for then I feel that I am not wasting my time—”

      Miss Allan, being thus addressed, shut her novel and observed the others placidly for a time. At last she said, “It is surely not natural to leave your wife because she happens to be in love with you. But that—as far as I can make out—is what the gentleman in my story does.”

      “Tut, tut, that doesn’t sound good—no, that doesn’t sound at all natural,” murmured the knitters in their absorbed voices.

      “Still, it’s the kind of book people call very clever,” Miss Allan added.

      “Maternity—by Michael Jessop—I presume,” Mr. Elliot put in, for he could never resist the temptation of talking while he played chess.

      “D’you know,” said Mrs. Elliot, after a moment, “I don’t think people do write good novels now—not as good as they used to, anyhow.”

      No one took the trouble to agree with her or to disagree with her. Arthur Venning who was strolling about, sometimes looking at the game, sometimes reading a page of a magazine, looked at Miss Allan, who was half asleep, and said humorously, “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Allan.”

      The others looked up. They were glad that he had not spoken to them. But Miss Allan replied without any hesitation, “I was thinking of my imaginary uncle. Hasn’t every one got an imaginary uncle?” she continued. “I have one—a most delightful old gentleman. He’s always giving me things. Sometimes it’s a gold watch; sometimes it’s a carriage and pair; sometimes it’s a beautiful little cottage in the New Forest; sometimes it’s a ticket to the place I most want to see.”

      She set them all thinking vaguely of the things they wanted. Mrs. Elliot knew exactly what she wanted; she wanted a child; and the usual little pucker deepened on her brow.

      “We’re such lucky people,” she said, looking at her husband. “We really have no wants.” She was apt to say this, partly in order to convince herself, and partly in order to convince other people. But she was prevented from wondering how far she carried conviction by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Flushing, who came through the hall and stopped by the chess-board. Mrs. Flushing looked wilder than ever. A great strand of black hair looped down across her brow, her cheeks were whipped a dark blood red, and drops of rain made wet marks upon them.

      Mr. Flushing explained that they had been on the roof watching the storm.

      “It was a wonderful sight,” he said. “The lightning went right out over the sea, and lit up the waves and the ships far away. You can’t think how wonderful the mountains looked too, with the lights on them, and the great masses of shadow. It’s all over now.”

      He slid down into a chair, becoming interested in the final struggle of the game.

      “And you go back to-morrow?” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking at Mrs. Flushing.

      “Yes,” she replied.

      “And indeed one is not sorry to go back,” said Mrs. Elliot, assuming an air of mournful anxiety, “after all this illness.”

      “Are you afraid of dyin’?” Mrs. Flushing demanded scornfully.

      “I think we are all afraid of that,” said Mrs. Elliot with dignity.

      “I suppose we’re all cowards when it comes to the point,” said Mrs. Flushing, rubbing her cheek against the back of the chair. “I’m sure I am.”

      “Not a bit of it!” said Mr. Flushing, turning round, for Mr. Pepper took a very long time to consider his move. “It’s not cowardly to wish to live, Alice. It’s the very reverse of cowardly. Personally, I’d like to go on for a hundred years—granted, of course, that I had the full use of my faculties. Think of all the things that are bound to happen!” “That is what I feel,” Mrs. Thornbury rejoined. “The changes, the improvements, the inventions—and beauty. D’you know I feel sometimes that I couldn’t bear to die and cease to see beautiful things about me?”

      “It would certainly be very dull to die before they have discovered whether there is life in Mars,” Miss Allan added.

      “Do you really believe there’s life in Mars?” asked Mrs. Flushing, turning to her for the first time with keen interest. “Who tells you that? Some one who knows? D’you know a man called—?”

      Here Mrs. Thornbury laid down her knitting, and a look of extreme solicitude came into her eyes.

      “There is Mr. Hirst,” she said quietly.

      St. John had just come through the swing door. He was rather blown about by the wind, and his cheeks looked terribly pale, unshorn, and cavernous. After taking off his coat he was going to pass straight through the hall and up to his room, but he could not ignore the presence of so many people he knew, especially as Mrs. Thornbury rose and went up to him, holding out her hand. But the shock of the warm lamp-lit room, together with the sight of so many cheerful human beings sitting together at their ease, after the dark walk in the rain, and the long days of strain and horror, overcame him completely. He looked at Mrs. Thornbury and could not speak.

      Every one was silent. Mr. Pepper’s hand stayed upon his Knight. Mrs. Thornbury somehow moved him to a chair, sat herself beside him, and with tears in her own eyes said gently, “You have done everything for your friend.”

      Her action set them all talking again as if they had never stopped, and Mr. Pepper finished the move with his Knight.

      “There was nothing to be done,” said St. John. He spoke very slowly. “It seems impossible—”

      He drew his hand across his eyes as if some dream came between him and the others and prevented him from seeing where he was.

      “And that poor fellow,” said Mrs. Thornbury, the tears falling again down her cheeks.

      “Impossible,” St. John repeated.

      “Did he have the consolation of knowing—?” Mrs. Thornbury began very tentatively.

      But St. John made no reply. He lay back in his chair, half-seeing the others, half-hearing what they said. He was terribly tired, and the light and warmth, the movements of the hands, and the soft communicative voices soothed him; they gave him a strange sense of quiet and relief. As he sat there, motionless, this feeling of relief became a feeling of profound happiness. Without any sense of disloyalty to Terence and Rachel he ceased to think about either of them. The movements and the voices seemed to draw together from different parts of the room, and to combine themselves into a pattern before his eyes; he was content to sit silently watching the pattern build itself up, looking at what he hardly saw.

      The game was really a good one, and Mr. Pepper and Mr. Elliot were becoming more and more set upon the struggle. Mrs. Thornbury, seeing that St. John did not wish to talk, resumed her knitting.

      “Lightning again!” Mrs. Flushing suddenly exclaimed. A yellow light flashed across the blue window, and for a second they saw the green trees outside. She strode to the door, pushed it open, and stood half out in the open air.

      But the light was only the reflection of the storm which was over. The rain had ceased, the heavy clouds were blown away, and the air was thin and clear, although vapourish mists were being driven swiftly across the moon. The sky was once more a deep and solemn blue, and the shape of the earth was visible at the bottom of the air, enormous, dark, and solid, rising into the tapering mass of the mountain, and pricked here and there on the slopes by the tiny lights of villas. The driving air, the drone of the trees, and the flashing light which now and again spread a broad illumination over the earth filled Mrs. Flushing with exultation. Her breasts rose and fell.

      “Splendid!

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