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“
How
she
would
have
hated
it
!
”
he
murmured
.
A
bench
stood
near
and
he
seated
himself
.
The
monument
rose
before
him
like
some
pretentious
uninhabited
dwelling
;
he
could
not
believe
that
Margaret
Aubyn
lay
there
.
It
was
a
Sunday
morning
and
black
figures
moved
among
the
paths
,
placing
flowers
on
the
frost
-
bound
hillocks
.
Glennard
noticed
that
the
neighboring
graves
had
been
thus
newly
dressed
;
and
he
fancied
a
blind
stir
of
expectancy
through
the
sod
,
as
though
the
bare
mounds
spread
a
parched
surface
to
that
commemorative
rain
.
He
rose
presently
and
walked
back
to
the
entrance
of
the
cemetery
.
Several
greenhouses
stood
near
the
gates
,
and
turning
in
at
the
first
he
asked
for
some
flowers
.
“
Anything
in
the
emblematic
line
?
”
asked
the
anaemic
man
behind
the
dripping
counter
.
Glennard
shook
his
head
.
“
Just
cut
flowers
?
This
way
,
then
.
”
The
florist
unlocked
a
glass
door
and
led
him
down
a
moist
green
aisle
The
hot
air
was
choked
with
the
scent
of
white
azaleas
,
white
lilies
,
white
lilacs
;
all
the
flowers
were
white
;
they
were
like
a
prolongation
,
a
mystical
efflorescence
,
of
the
long
rows
of
marble
tombstones
,
and
their
perfume
seemed
to
cover
an
odor
of
decay
.
The
rich
atmosphere
made
Glennard
dizzy
.
As
he
leaned
in
the
doorpost
,
waiting
for
the
flowers
,
he
had
a
penetrating
sense
of
Margaret
Aubyn
’
s
nearness
—
not
the
imponderable
presence
of
his
inner
vision
,
but
a
life
that
beat
warm
in
his
arms
.
.
.
.
The
sharp
air
caught
him
as
he
stepped
out
into
it
again
.
He
walked
back
and
scattered
the
flowers
over
the
grave
.
The
edges
of
the
white
petals
shrivelled
like
burnt
paper
in
the
cold
;
and
as
he
watched
them
the
illusion
of
her
nearness
faded
,
shrank
back
frozen
.
The
motive
of
his
visit
to
the
cemetery
remained
undefined
save
as
a
final
effort
of
escape
from
his
wife
’
s
inexpressive
acceptance
of
his
shame
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
as
long
as
he
could
keep
himself
alive
to
that
shame
he
would
not
wholly
have
succumbed
to
its
consequences
.
His
chief
fear
was
that
he
should
become
the
creature
of
his
act
.
His
wife
’
s
indifference
degraded
him
;
it
seemed
to
put
him
on
a
level
with
his
dishonor
.
Margaret
Aubyn
would
have
abhorred
the
deed
in
proportion
to
her
pity
for
the
man
.
The
sense
of
her
potential
pity
drew
him
back
to
her
.
The
one
woman
knew
but
did
not
understand
;
the
other
,
it
sometimes
seemed
,
understood
without
knowing
.
In
its
last
disguise
of
retrospective
remorse
,
his
self
-
pity
affected
a
desire
for
solitude
and
meditation
.
He
lost
himself
in
morbid
musings
,
in
futile
visions
of
what
life
with
Margaret
Aubyn
might
have
been
.
There
were
moments
when
,
in
the
strange
dislocation
of
his
view
,
the
wrong
he
had
done
her
seemed
a
tie
between
them
.
To
indulge
these
emotions
he
fell
into
the
habit
,
on
Sunday
afternoons
,
of
solitary
walks
prolonged
till
after
dusk
.
The
days
were
lengthening
,
there
was
a
touch
of
spring
in
the
air
,
and
his
wanderings
now
usually
led
him
to
the
Park
and
its
outlying
regions
.
