t in fact it was life itself, the only thing worthy of the
name, but that was five minutes ago, and since then the veil had fallen.
Pacing the terrace by Bernard's side, the hard theory of work and duty
seemed infinitely more applicable. And yet--life was so long! Barely
thirty years behind and perhaps forty or more to come. Cassandra's
heart shrank at the prospect. She could have faced death bravely, but
life appalled; long, dragging-out years of duty, unillumined by love.
If it were hard now in the days of youth, and health, and beauty, what
would it be in the searing of the leaf? She looked into her husband's
face, so strong and wholesome in its clear, out-of-door tints, and her
heart went out to him in a wave of longing. As a drowning man will
cling to the first support that his arms can reach, so did she turn to
the man who had vowed to give her a lifelong support. If Bernard would
care! If just for once he would show that he could care. Her starving
heart cried out for food. It seemed impossible to live on, without a
word of love or appreciation. She pushed her hand further through his
arm, and gently smoothed the sleeve of his coat. It lay just beneath
his eyes, the long, beautiful hand, the tapering fingers delicately
white, with a tinge of pink on the almond-shaped nails; the square-cut
emerald sent out gleams of light. Cassandra knew that that hand was a
lovely thing. Surely the sight of it, resting there, would bring that
other strong, brown hand to meet it! Then, grasping it fast, she could
speak out, and say: "Help me, Bernard. Show me your love! I am only a
woman, and I am afraid..." But the strong hand did not come. Bernard
slackened his arm, and turned towards the house. His ear had caught the
tremor in his wife's voice, and it was his fixed decision that when
women waxed emotional it was wisdom to leave them alone. He looked at
his watch, announced that there was just time for a wash before lunch,
and took his departure. And as he went he whistled a lively song.

Cassandra leant her arms on the stone balustrade and looked over the
sloping gardens. The shimmer of green buds was on the trees; through
the brown earth were springing living things. All the world was new,
but in her breast her heart lay dead.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

HER INFINITE VARIETY.

"I should like," announced Grizel to Martin over the breakfast table, "I
should like to publish an apology, illuminated and framed,