THE WINDOW

entire shaped in her hands, beautiful and reason-
able, clear and complete, the essence sucked out
of life and held rounded here—the sonnet.

But she was becoming conscious of her
husband looking at her. He was smiling at her,
quizzically, as if he were ridiculing her gently
for being asleep in broad daylight, but at the same
time he was thinking, Go on reading. You don't
look sad now, he thought. And he wondered
what she was reading, and exaggerated her
ignorance, her simplicity, for he liked to think that
she was not clever, not book-learned at all. He
wondered if she understood what she was reading.
Probably not, he thought. She was astonishingly
beautiful. Her beauty seemed to him, if that
were possible, to increase.

Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play,

she finished.

"Well?" she said, echoing his smile dreamily,
looking up from her book.

As with your shadow I with these did play,

she murmured putting the book on the table.

What had happened she wondered, as she took
up her knitting, since she had last seen him alone?
She remembered dressing, and seeing the moon;
Andrew holding his plate too high at dinner;

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