y, presents to thank for, a brief visit to a Training
College, a honeymoon as brief. In such a bustle, what spiritual union
could take place? Surely the dust would settle soon: in Italy, at
Easter, he might perceive the infinities of love. But love had shown him
its infinities already. Neither by marriage nor by any other device can
men insure themselves a vision; and Rickie's had been granted him three
years before, when he had seen his wife and a dead man clasped in each
other's arms. She was never to be so real to him again.

She ran about the house looking handsomer than ever. Her cheerful
voice gave orders to the servants. As he sat in the study correcting
compositions, she would dart in and give him a kiss. "Dear girl--" he
would murmur, with a glance at the rings on her hand. The tone of their
marriage life was soon set. It was to be a frank good-fellowship, and
before long he found it difficult to speak in a deeper key.

One evening he made the effort. There had been more beauty than was
usual at Sawston. The air was pure and quiet. Tomorrow the fog might
be here, but today one said, "It is like the country." Arm in arm they
strolled in the side-garden, stopping at times to notice the crocuses,
or to wonder when the daffodils would flower. Suddenly he tightened his
pressure, and said, "Darling, why don't you still wear ear-rings?"

"Ear-rings?" She laughed. "My taste has improved, perhaps."

So after all they never mentioned Gerald's name. But he hoped it was
still dear to her. He did not want her to forget the greatest moment in
her life. His love desired not ownership but confidence, and to a love
so pure it does not seem terrible to come second.

He valued emotion--not for itself, but because it is the only final path
to intimacy. She, ever robust and practical, always discouraged him.
She was not cold; she would willingly embrace him. But she hated being
upset, and would laugh or thrust him off when his voice grew serious.
In this she reminded him of his mother. But his mother--he had never
concealed it from himself--had glories to which his wife would never
attain: glories that had unfolded against a life of horror--a life even
more horrible than he had guessed. He thought of her often during these
earlier months. Did she bless his union, so different to her own? Did
she love his wife? He tried to speak of her to Agnes, but again she was
reluctant. And perhaps it was this aversion to acknowledge the dead