uld not go a step that he
did not intend, understand. This business of Paris, for example: he might
tell Meta Beggs that he'd go, and then, at--say, Norfolk, he would change
his mind. Anyhow that was a plan worth considering. He recalled the
school-teacher's level, penetrating gaze; she was as smart as Lettice had
divined; he would have difficulty in fooling her. He felt obscurely that
any step taken with her would prove irrevocable.

Lettice kept at him and at him; after the baby arrived it would be no
better; there would be others; he regarded a succession of such periods, a
succession of babies, with marked disfavor. He had been detached for so
long from the restraints of commonplace, reputable relationships that they
grew increasingly irksome, they chafed the old, established freedom of
morals and action. Meta Beggs blew into fresh flame the embers of dying
years. And yet, as he had told her by the stream, an involuntary
lassitude, a new stiffness, had fallen upon his desire. Although his
marriage was burdensome it was an accomplished fact; Lettice's wishes,
her quality of steadfastness, exerted their influence upon him.

They operated now to increase his resentment; they formed an almost
detached disapproval situated within his own breast, a criticism of his
thoughts, his emotions, against which he vainly raged, setting himself
pointedly in its defiance.

He lounged past the Courthouse, past Peterman's hotel, to the post-office.
It was a small frame structure, with the wing of the postmaster's
residence extending from the back. At the right of the entrance was a
small show window holding two watches with shut, chased silver lids, and a
small pasteboard box lined with faded olive-colored plush containing two
plated nut crackers and six picks. The postmaster was the local jeweller.
Within, beyond the window which gave access to the governmental activities
a glass case rested on the counter. It was filled with an assortment of
trinkets--rings with large, highly-colored stones, wedding bands, gold
pins and bangles engraved with women's flowery names; and, laid by itself,
a necklace of looped seed pearls.

The latter captured Gordon's attention, it was so pale, and yet, at the
same time, so suggestive of elusive colors; it was so slender and
graceful, so finished, that it irresistibly recalled the person of Meta
Beggs.

"Let's see that string of pearls," he requested.

The postmaster laid it on top of the glass ca