door. 

 She was sitting at a gleaming dressing table in something white and clinging, doing her hair that was so soft and brown and electrical. 

 He dared not trust himself to speak. He sat down on the edge of a sofa at the foot of the bed and watched her. 

 She went on brushing but with her unoccupied hand gathered her gown about her. "What is it, Marty?" she asked quietly. 

 "Nothing," he said, finding something that sounded curiously unlike his voice. 

 She could see his young, eager face and broad shoulders in the looking-glass. His hands were clasped tightly round one knee. 

 "I've been listening to the sound of traffic," she said. "That's the sort of music that appeals to me. It seems a year since I did my hair in that great, prim room and heard the owls cry and watched myself grow old. Just think! It's really only a few hours ago that I dropped my suit-case out of a window and climbed down the creeper. We said we'd make things move, didn't we?" 

 "I shall write to your grandfather in the morning," said Martin, with almost comical gravity and an unconscious touch of patronage. How childlike the old are to the very young! 

 "That will be nice of you," answered Joan. "We'll be very kind to him, won't we? There'll be no one to read the papers to him now." 

 "He was a great chap once," said Martin. "My father liked him awfully." 

 She swung her hair free and turned her chair a little. "You must tell me what he said about him, in the morning. Heigh-ho, I'm so sleepy." 

 Martin got up and went to see if the windows were all open. "They'll call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later." 

 Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand. "Eight's good," she said. "Good night, Marty." 

 The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly. What did she mean? 

 He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice. 

 And she gave him the smile of a tired child. "Just that, old boy. Good night." 

 Prev. P 34/214 next