and straight in
the bridge, then curved under, delicately acquiline, its nostrils were
close and clean cut. Her small, close upper lip had a flying droop; and
her chin curved slightly, ever so slightly, away to her throat. When she
talked Maisie's mouth and the tip of her nose kept up the same
sensitive, quivering play. But Maisie's eyes were still; they had no
sparkling speech; they listened, deeply attentive to the person who was
there. They took up the smile her mouth began and was too small to
finish.

And now, as they looked at him, he felt that he ought to take her in his
arms, suddenly, at once. In another instant it would be too late, the
action would have lost the grace of spontaneous impulse. He wondered how
you simulated a spontaneous impulse.

But Maisie made it all right for him. As he stood waiting for his
impulse she came to him and laid her hands on his shoulders and kissed
him, gently, on each cheek. Her hands slid down; they pressed hard
against his arms above the elbow, as if to keep back his too passionate
embrace. It was easy enough to return her kiss, to pass his arms under
hers and press her slight body, gently, with his cramped hands. Did she
know that his heart was not in it?

No. She knew nothing.

"What have you been doing with yourself?" she said. "You do look fit."

"Do I? Oh, nothing much."

He turned away from her sweet eyes that hurt him.

At least he could bring forward a chair for her, and put cushions at her
back, and pour out her tea and wait on her. He tried by a number of
careful, deliberate attentions to make up for his utter lack of
spontaneity. And she sat there, drinking her tea, contented; pleased to
be back in her happy home; serenely unaware that anything was missing.

He took her over the house and showed her her room, the long room with
the two south windows, one on each side of the square, cross-lighted bay
above the porch. It was full of the clear April light.

Maisie looked round, taking it all in, the privet-white panels, the
lovely faded Persian rugs, the curtains of old rose damask. An armchair
and a round table with a bowl of pink tulips on it stood in the centre
of the bay.

"Is this mine, this heavenly room?"

"I thought so."

He was glad that he had something beautiful to give her, to make up.

She glanced at the inner door leading to his father's room. "Is that
yours in there?"

"Mine? No. That door's locked. It... I'm on the other side next to