eir incredible softness, had a vehemence
that held him as if it would never let him go; and in the cleaving of
her mouth to his there was a savage will that pressed as if it would
have crushed between them all memory and premonition. This was somewhat
disastrous to fineness and clearness, and Ransome's no doubt would have
perished but for the persistence with which he held Violet sacred as the
mother of his child.

Her attitude to the child was still incomprehensible to him, but he was
beginning to accept it, perceiving that it had some obscure foundation
in her temperament. There were moments when he fell back on his old
superstition (exploded by the doctor) and told himself that Violet was
one of those who suffer profoundly from the shock of childbirth. And in
that case she would get over it in time.

* * * * *

But time went on, and Violet showed no signs of getting over it, no
signs, at any rate, of settling down. On the contrary, before very long
she slipped into her old slack ways. With all her fierce vitality it was
as if she had no strength to turn her hand to anything. The charwoman
came every week. (That was no more than Ransome was prepared for.)

The charwoman worked heavily against odds, doing all she knew. And yet,
in the searching light of summer, it was plain, as Ransome pointed out,
that Granville was undergoing a slow deterioration.

First of all, the woodwork cracked and the paint came off in blisters,
and the dirt that got into the seams and holes and places stayed there.
Granville was visited with a plague of fine dust. It settled on
everything; it penetrated; it worked its way in everywhere. Violet,
going round languidly with a silly feather brush, made no headway
against the pest.

"For Heaven's sake get it out," said Ransome, "or we shall all be
swallowed up in it and die."

"Get it out yourself, if you can," said Violet. "You'll soon see how you
like my job."

She was developing more and more a power of acrimonious and unanswerable
retort.

"Can't you let it be, Ranny?" (He had found the feather brush.)

"No. It's spoiling all my O.K. cuffs and collars."

"I can't help your cuffs and collars. What do you suppose it's doing to
mine?"

Ransome went on flourishing the feather brush. Presently he began to
cough and sneeze.

"If you wouldn't rouse it," said Violet, "it would do less harm."

He admitted that the dust was terrible when roused.

So the