es, her mouth was a little
drawn as if by the memory of pain. A shawl, he saw, had slipped from her
shoulders, and he walked clumsily on the tips of his shoes and rearranged
it. Then he sat down and waited for her to wake.

The flame of the lamp was like a section of an orange; it cast a warm, low
radiance through the room. His gaze rested on the photograph of Lettice's
mother in her coffin. He imagined that paper effigy of inanimate clay
moved, turned its dull head to regard him. "I'm getting old," he told
himself contemptuously, repressing an involuntary start of surprise. His
heart rested like a lump of lead in his breast; it oppressed him so that
his breathing grew labored. His mind returned to Meta Beggs: coldness like
hers was not natural, it was not right. He thought again, as men have
vainly of such women since the dawning of consciousness, that it would be
stirring to fire her indifference, to ignite a passion in response to his
own desire. The memory of her slender, full body, her cool lips, tormented
him.

Lettice woke abruptly.

"Gordon!" she cried, in an odd, muffled voice; "you're always late; your
supper is always spoiled."

"I had my supper," he hurriedly fabricated, "at Peterman's. It's nice in
here, Lettice, with you and all the things around. It has a comfortable
look. You're right pretty, Lettice, too."

The unexpected compliment brought a flush to her cheeks. "I'm not pretty
now," she replied; "I'm all pulled out." General Jackson ambled into the
room, sat between them. "Let's hear the General sing," she proposed.

Gordon wound the phonograph, and the distant, metallic voice repeated the
undeniable fact that Rip Van Winkle had been unaware of the select
pleasures of Coney Island. The dog whimpered, then raised his head in a
despairing bay.

A time might come in a man's life, Gordon Makimmon realized, when this
peaceful interior would spell complete happiness.

XI

On Sunday he strolled soon after breakfast in the direction of the
priest's. Merlier was standing at the door to his house. Gordon noted that
the other was growing heavier, folds dropped from the corners of his
shaven lips, his eyes had retreated in fatty pouches. His gaze was still
searchingly keen, but the priest was wearing out. Gordon stopped in
response to his silent nod.

"You ought to let up on yourself a little," he advised.

"Why?" the other briefly queried.

"'Why?', so's you will last longer."

To this t