THE WINDOW

the thing folding them in was beginning, she felt,
to close round her again. Say anything, she
begged, looking at him, as if for help.

He was silent, swinging the compass on his
watch-chain to and fro, and thinking of Scott's
novels and Balzac's novels. But through the
crepuscular walls of their intimacy, for they were
drawing together, involuntarily, coming side by
side, quite close, she could feel his mind like a
raised hand shadowing her mind; and he was
beginning now that her thoughts took a turn he
disliked—towards this " pessimism " as he called
it—to fidget, though he said nothing, raising his
hand to his forehead, twisting a lock of hair,
letting it fall again.

" You won't finish that stocking to-night,"
he said, pointing to her stocking. That was what
she wanted—the asperity in his voice reproving
her. If he says it's wrong to be pessimistic
probably it is wrong, she thought; the marriage
will turn out all right.

" No," she said, flattening the stocking out
upon her knee, " I shan't finish it."

And what then? For she felt that he was still
looking at her, but that his look had changed. He
wanted something—wanted the thing she always
found it so difficult to give him; wanted her to
tell him that she loved him. And that, no, she

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