THE WINDOW

little bit of rubbish—something they had heard,
something they had picked up in the garden.
They had all their little treasures, . . And so she
went down and said to her husband, Why must
they grow up and lose it all? Never will they be
so happy again. And he was angry. Why take
such a gloomy view of life? he said. It is not
sensible. For it was odd; and she believed it to
be true; that with all his gloom and desperation
he was happier, more hopeful on the whole, than
she was. Less exposed to human worries—
perhaps that was it. He had always his work to
fall back on. Not that she herself was " pessi-
mistic ", as he accused her of being. Only she
thought life—and a little strip of time presented
Itself to her eyes, her fifty years. There it was
before her—life. Life : she thought but she did
not finish her thought. She took a look at life,
for she had a clear sense of it there, something
real, something private, which she shared neither
with her children nor with her husband. A sort
of transaction went on between them, in which
she was on one side, and life was on another, and
she was always trying to get the better of it, as
it was of her; and sometimes they parleyed (when
she sat alone); there were, she remembered,
great reconciliation scenes; but for the most
part, oddly enough, she must admit that she

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