d the feel of the small velvet hands in her own palm.
The clear blue-white of their eyes, the softness of their hair, the very
feel of their firm, strong bare legs gave her an actual pang of joy. But
a half hour--an hour--with them, and she grew restless, irritable. She
didn't try to define this feeling.

"You say you love the children. And yet when I ask you to be with them
for half a day----"

"I do love them. But they make me nervous."

"I don't see how they can make you nervous if you really care about
them."

Joan was Hannah's favourite; resembled her. The boy, Peter, was blond,
like his mother. In Joan was repeated the grandmother's sallow skin,
dark eyes, vivacity, force. The two, so far apart in years, were united
by a strong natural bond of sympathy and alikeness. When they were
together on some errand or excursion they had a fine time. If it didn't
last too long.

Sometimes the young married women would complain to each other about
their mothers. "I don't ask her often, goodness knows. But I think she
might offer to take the children one or two afternoons during their
vacation, anyway. She hasn't a thing to do. Not a thing."

Among themselves the grandmothers did not say so much. They had gone to
a sterner school. But it had come to this: Hannah was afraid to plan her
day. So often had she found herself called upon to forego an afternoon
at bridge, a morning's shopping, an hour's mending, even, or reading.

She often had dinner at Marcia's, but not as often as she was asked.
More and more she longed for and appreciated the orderly quiet and
solitude of her own little room. She never analyzed this, nor did Marcia
or Ed. It was a craving for relaxation on the part of body and nerves
strained throughout almost half a century of intensive living.

Ed and Marcia were always doing charming things for her. Marcia had made
the cushions and the silk lampshades for her room. Marcia was always
bringing her jellies, and a quarter of a freshly baked cake done in
black Lutie's best style. Ed and Marcia insisted periodically on her
going with them to the theatre or downtown for dinner, or to one of the
gardens where there was music and dancing and dining. This was known as
"taking mother out." Hannah Winter didn't enjoy these affairs as much,
perhaps, as she should have. She much preferred a mild spree with one of
her own cronies. Ed was very careful of her at street crossings and
going down steps, and joggled her e