hers. He had
come, after a hard day's work, out from his studio into the courtyard
garden to smoke a cigarette and feel the sun on his cheek before it sank
behind the wall. A piano-organ far away was grinding out a waltz; and on
an hydrangea tub, under the drawing-room window, he sat down to listen.
Nothing was visible from there, save just the square patch of a quite
blue sky, and one soft plume of smoke from his own kitchen chimney;
nothing audible save that tune, and the never-ending street murmur.
Twice birds flew across--starlings. It was very peaceful, and his
thoughts went floating like the smoke of his cigarette, to meet
who-knew-what other thoughts--for thoughts, no doubt, had little swift
lives of their own; desired, found their mates, and, lightly blending,
sent forth offspring. Why not? All things were possible in this
wonder-house of a world. Even that waltz tune, floating away, would find
some melody to wed, and twine with, and produce a fresh chord that might
float in turn to catch the hum of a gnat or fly, and breed again.
Queer--how everything sought to entwine with something else! On one of
the pinkish blooms of the hydrangea he noted a bee--of all things, in
this hidden-away garden of tiles and gravel and plants in tubs! The
little furry, lonely thing was drowsily clinging there, as if it had
forgotten what it had come for--seduced, maybe, like himself, from labour
by these last rays of the sun. Its wings, close-furled, were glistening;
its eyes seemed closed. And the piano-organ played on, a tune of
yearning, waiting, yearning. . . .

Then, through the window above his head, he heard Oliver Dromore--a voice
one could always tell, pitched high, with its slight drawl--pleading,
very softly at first, then insistent, imperious; and suddenly Nell's
answering voice:

"I won't, Oliver! I won't! I won't!"

He rose to go out of earshot. Then a door slammed, and he saw her at the
window above him, her waist on a level with his head; flushed, with her
grey eyes ominously bright, her full lips parted. And he said:

"What is it, Nell?"

She leaned down and caught his hand; her touch was fiery hot.

"He kissed me! I won't let him--I won't kiss him!"

Through his head went a medley of sayings to soothe children that are
hurt; but he felt unsteady, unlike himself. And suddenly she knelt, and
put her hot forehead against his lips.

It was as if she had really been a little child, wanting the p