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She
made
no
reply
and
he
drew
forth
the
rolled
-
up
evening
papers
which
he
had
thrust
into
his
pocket
on
leaving
the
train
.
As
he
smoothed
them
out
his
own
countenance
seemed
to
undergo
the
same
process
.
He
ran
his
eye
down
the
list
of
stocks
and
Flamel
’
s
importunate
personality
receded
behind
the
rows
of
figures
pushing
forward
into
notice
like
so
many
bearers
of
good
news
.
Glennard
’
s
investments
were
flowering
like
his
garden
:
the
dryest
shares
blossomed
into
dividends
,
and
a
golden
harvest
awaited
his
sickle
.
He
glanced
at
his
wife
with
the
tranquil
air
of
the
man
who
digests
good
luck
as
naturally
as
the
dry
ground
absorbs
a
shower
.
“
Things
are
looking
uncommonly
well
.
I
believe
we
shall
be
able
to
go
to
town
for
two
or
three
months
next
winter
if
we
can
find
something
cheap
.
”
She
smiled
luxuriously
:
it
was
pleasant
to
be
able
to
say
,
with
an
air
of
balancing
relative
advantages
,
“
Really
,
on
the
baby
’
s
account
I
shall
be
almost
sorry
;
but
if
we
do
go
,
there
’
s
Kate
Erskine
’
s
house
.
.
.
she
’
ll
let
us
have
it
for
almost
nothing
.
.
.
.
”
“
Well
,
write
her
about
it
,
”
he
recommended
,
his
eyes
travelling
on
in
search
of
the
weather
report
.
He
had
turned
to
the
wrong
page
;
and
suddenly
a
line
of
black
characters
leapt
out
at
him
as
from
an
ambush
.
“
‘
Margaret
Aubyn
’
s
Letters
.
’
Two
volumes
.
Out
to
-
day
.
First
edition
of
five
thousand
sold
out
before
leaving
the
press
.
Second
edition
ready
next
week
.
The
Book
Of
The
Year
.
.
.
.
”
He
looked
up
stupidly
.
His
wife
still
sat
with
her
head
thrown
back
,
her
pure
profile
detached
against
the
cushions
.
She
was
smiling
a
little
over
the
prospect
his
last
words
had
opened
.
Behind
her
head
shivers
of
sun
and
shade
ran
across
the
striped
awning
.
A
row
of
maples
and
a
privet
hedge
hid
their
neighbor
’
s
gables
,
giving
them
undivided
possession
of
their
leafy
half
-
acre
;
and
life
,
a
moment
before
,
had
been
like
their
plot
of
ground
,
shut
off
,
hedged
in
from
importunities
,
impenetrably
his
and
hers
.
Now
it
seemed
to
him
that
every
maple
-
leaf
,
every
privet
-
bud
,
was
a
relentless
human
gaze
,
pressing
close
upon
their
privacy
.
It
was
as
though
they
sat
in
a
brightly
lit
room
,
uncurtained
from
a
darkness
full
of
hostile
watchers
.
.
.
.
His
wife
still
smiled
;
and
her
unconsciousness
of
danger
seemed
,
in
some
horrible
way
,
to
put
her
beyond
the
reach
of
rescue
.
.
.
.
He
had
not
known
that
it
would
be
like
this
.
After
the
first
odious
weeks
,
spent
in
preparing
the
letters
for
publication
,
in
submitting
them
to
Flamel
,
and
in
negotiating
with
the
publishers
,
the
transaction
had
dropped
out
of
his
consciousness
into
that
unvisited
limbo
to
which
we
relegate
the
deeds
we
would
rather
not
have
done
but
have
no
notion
of
undoing
.
From
the
moment
he
had
obtained
Miss
Trent
’
s
promise
not
to
sail
with
her
aunt
he
had
tried
to
imagine
himself
irrevocably
committed
.
After
that
,
he
argued
,
his
first
duty
was
to
her
—
she
had
become
his
conscience
.
The
sum
obtained
from
the
publishers
by
Flamel
’
s
adroit
manipulations
and
opportunely
transferred
to
Dinslow
’
s
successful
venture
,
already
yielded
a
return
which
,
combined
with
Glennard
’
s
professional
earnings
,
took
the
edge
of
compulsion
from
their
way
of
living
,
making
it
appear
the
expression
of
a
graceful
preference
for
simplicity
.
It
was
the
mitigated
poverty
which
can
subscribe
to
a
review
or
two
and
have
a
few
flowers
on
the
dinner
-
table
.
And
already
in
a
small
way
Glennard
was
beginning
to
feel
the
magnetic
quality
of
prosperity
.
Clients
who
had
passed
his
door
in
the
hungry
days
sought
it
out
now
that
it
bore
the
name
of
a
successful
man
.
It
was
understood
that
a
small
inheritance
,
cleverly
invested
,
was
the
source
of
his
fortune
;
and
there
was
a
feeling
that
a
man
who
could
do
so
well
for
himself
was
likely
to
know
how
to
turn
over
other
people
’
s
money
.
