America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely. And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. It is no good. “I am sure of it. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. Ramage demurred. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time.
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