If it had not been
for the presence of Mrs. Marlow, I could not have dared. But the
woman complicates the situation with all sorts of delicate reactions
of tact, conduct, and necessity. It is always so. Well. Humph!
But the apparition at the other end of the room was plainly in
trouble. A distressing sight, and I divined that the others were
relying on me. Mrs. Marlow, poor soul, her face had a piteous and
luminous appeal. It was, once more, the old and shocking question of
conflicting loyalties. There was nothing else to do. I shoved out
one foot, and the stand of fire-irons fell over with an appalling
clatter. Marlow broke off--somewhere near Manila, I think it was.
"Charlie, my dear," said Mrs. Marlow, "Don't you think we could
finish the story after dinner? The roast will be quite spoiled. The
maid has been waiting for nearly two hours...."
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE HOUSE
After many days of damp, dull, and dolorous weather, we found
ourself unexpectedly moving in a fresh, cool, pure air; an air
which, although there was no sunlight, had the spirit and feeling of
sunlight in it; an air which was purged and lively. And, so
strangely do things happen, after days of various complexion and
stratagem, we found ourself looking across that green field, still
unchanged, at the little house.
Wasn't there--we faintly recall a saccharine tune sung by someone
who strode stiffly to and fro in a glare of amber footlights--wasn't
there a song about: "And I lo-ong to settle down, in that old Long
Island town!" Wasn't there such a ditty? It came softly back,
unbidden, to the sentimental attic of our memory as we passed along
that fine avenue of trees and revisited, for the first time since
we moved away, the wide space of those Long Island fields and the
row of frame cottages.
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