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Darrow
,
late
that
evening
,
threw
himself
into
an
armchair
before
his
fire
and
mused
.
The
room
was
propitious
to
meditation
.
The
red
-
veiled
lamp
,
the
corners
of
shadow
,
the
splashes
of
firelight
on
the
curves
of
old
full
-
bodied
wardrobes
and
cabinets
,
gave
it
an
air
of
intimacy
increased
by
its
faded
hangings
,
its
slightly
frayed
and
threadbare
rugs
.
Everything
in
it
was
harmoniously
shabby
,
with
a
subtle
sought
-
for
shabbiness
in
which
Darrow
fancied
he
discerned
the
touch
of
Fraser
Leath
.
But
Fraser
Leath
had
grown
so
unimportant
a
factor
in
the
scheme
of
things
that
these
marks
of
his
presence
caused
the
young
man
no
emotion
beyond
that
of
a
faint
retrospective
amusement
.
The
afternoon
and
evening
had
been
perfect
.
After
a
moment
of
concern
over
her
step
-
son
’
s
departure
,
Anna
had
surrendered
herself
to
her
happiness
with
an
impetuosity
that
Darrow
had
never
suspected
in
her
.
Early
in
the
afternoon
they
had
gone
out
in
the
motor
,
traversing
miles
of
sober
-
tinted
landscape
in
which
,
here
and
there
,
a
scarlet
vineyard
flamed
,
clattering
through
the
streets
of
stony
villages
,
coming
out
on
low
slopes
above
the
river
,
or
winding
through
the
pale
gold
of
narrow
wood
-
roads
with
the
blue
of
clear
-
cut
hills
at
their
end
.
Over
everything
lay
a
faint
sunshine
that
seemed
dissolved
in
the
still
air
,
and
the
smell
of
wet
roots
and
decaying
leaves
was
merged
in
the
pungent
scent
of
burning
underbrush
.
Once
,
at
the
turn
of
a
wall
,
they
stopped
the
motor
before
a
ruined
gateway
and
,
stumbling
along
a
road
full
of
ruts
,
stood
before
a
little
old
deserted
house
,
fantastically
carved
and
chimneyed
,
which
lay
in
a
moat
under
the
shade
of
ancient
trees
.
They
paced
the
paths
between
the
trees
,
found
a
mouldy
Temple
of
Love
on
an
islet
among
reeds
and
plantains
,
and
,
sitting
on
a
bench
in
the
stable
-
yard
,
watched
the
pigeons
circling
against
the
sunset
over
their
cot
of
patterned
brick
.
Then
the
motor
flew
on
into
the
dusk
.
.
.
When
they
came
in
they
sat
beside
the
fire
in
the
oak
drawing
-
room
,
and
Darrow
noticed
how
delicately
her
head
stood
out
against
the
sombre
panelling
,
and
mused
on
the
enjoyment
there
would
always
be
in
the
mere
fact
of
watching
her
hands
as
they
moved
about
among
the
tea
-
things
.
.
.
They
dined
late
,
and
facing
her
across
the
table
,
with
its
low
lights
and
flowers
,
he
felt
an
extraordinary
pleasure
in
seeing
her
again
in
evening
dress
,
and
in
letting
his
eyes
dwell
on
the
proud
shy
set
of
her
head
,
the
way
her
dark
hair
clasped
it
,
and
the
girlish
thinness
of
her
neck
above
the
slight
swell
of
the
breast
.
His
imagination
was
struck
by
the
quality
of
reticence
in
her
beauty
.
She
suggested
a
fine
portrait
kept
down
to
a
few
tones
,
or
a
Greek
vase
on
which
the
play
of
light
is
the
only
pattern
.
After
dinner
they
went
out
on
the
terrace
for
a
look
at
the
moon
-
misted
park
.
Through
the
crepuscular
whiteness
the
trees
hung
in
blotted
masses
.
Below
the
terrace
,
the
garden
drew
its
dark
diagrams
between
statues
that
stood
like
muffled
conspirators
on
the
edge
of
the
shadow
.
Farther
off
,
the
meadows
unrolled
a
silver
-
shot
tissue
to
the
mantling
of
mist
above
the
river
;
and
the
autumn
stars
trembled
overhead
like
their
own
reflections
seen
in
dim
water
.
He
lit
his
cigar
,
and
they
walked
slowly
up
and
down
the
flags
in
the
languid
air
,
till
he
put
an
arm
about
her
,
saying
:
“
You
mustn
’
t
stay
till
you
’
re
chilled
”
;
then
they
went
back
into
the
room
and
drew
up
their
chairs
to
the
fire
.
