the high branches of the tree of Heaven, as if he
saw his dream shining clear through them like a moon.

The opportunist could see nothing but his sublime opportunity.

Michael went back with him to dine and talk it over. There was to be
civil war in Ireland then?

He thought: If only Lawrence would let him go with him. He wanted to go
to Ireland. To join the Nationalists and fight for Ireland, fight for
the freedom he was always dreaming about--_that_ would be a fine thing.
It would be a finer thing than writing poems about Ireland.

Lawrence Stephen went soberly and steadily through the affair of the
_Review_, explaining things to Michael. He wanted this done, and this.
And over and over again Michael's voice broke through his instructions.
Why couldn't he go to Ireland instead of Lawrence? Or, if Lawrence
wouldn't let him go instead of him, he might at least take him with him.
He didn't want to stay at home editing the _Review_. Ellis or Mitchell
or Monier-Owen would edit it better than he could. Even the wretched
Wadham would edit it just as well. He wanted to go to Ireland and fight.

But Lawrence wouldn't let him go. He wasn't going to have the boy's
blood on his hands. His genius and his youth were too precious.

Besides, Ireland was not his country.

* * * * *

It was past ten o'clock. Frances was alone in the drawing-room. She sat
by the open window and waited and watched.

The quiet garden lay open to her sight. Only the inner end of the
farther terrace, under the orchard wall, was hidden by a high screen
of privet.

It seemed hours to Frances since she had seen Nicky and Veronica go down
the lawn on to the terrace.

And then Anthony had gone out too. She was vexed with Anthony. She could
see him sitting under his ash-tree, her tree of heaven; his white
shirt-front gave out an oblong gleam like phosphorous in the darkness
under the tree. She was watching to see that he didn't get up and go on
to the terrace. Anthony had no business in the garden at all. He was
catching cold in it. He had sneezed twice. She wanted Nicholas and
Veronica to have the garden to themselves to-night, and the perfect
stillness of the twilight to themselves, every tree and every little
leaf and flower keeping quiet for them; and there was Anthony sneezing.

She was restless and impatient, as if she carried the burden of their
passion in her own heart.

Presently she could bear it no longer