there had never been any Anne. So
he gave it up, and, in extreme dullness of mind, went about opening
windows, and as the breeze idled in and stirred the waiting air and the
sunlight rushed to it, he seemed to be sweeping the last earthly
vestiges of her from the place that had known her best. And at once it
appeared to him that he had done an inexorable, perhaps even a cruel
thing, and he hurried out, leaving the air and sun to be more merciful
than he.

When he went into his own yard he saw Dick sitting under the western
pines, where Raven had set a couple of chairs and had a hammock swung.
Dick had ignored the hammock. He scarcely sat at ease, and Raven had an
idea he was meeting discomfort halfway, with the idea of making himself
fit. He did say a word of thanks for the chairs.

"Only," he added, "don't let it look too sociable. That'll be as bad as
the porch." He laughed a little, and concluded: "I don't mean you, Jack.
You know that, don't you?"

Raven guessed he was allowing himself the indulgence of avoiding his
mother. For now Milly, as he recovered, had struggled hard for her lost
poise and regained it, in a slightly altered form, it is true; but still
she had it pretty well in hand, she was unweariedly attentive to him and
inexorably self-sacrificing in leaving Nan the right of way. Her life
had again become a severely ritualistic social enterprise, but now she
was just far enough lacking in spontaneity to fail in playing her game
as prettily as she used. It was tiring to watch, chiefly because you
could see how it tired her to play.

Raven went down the little foot-path to Dick, and he thought anew how
illness had ravaged him. He had the tired eyes, the hollow cheek of
ineffective youth.

"Hoping you'd come," said Dick. "Now, where's Tenney?"

"Tenney," said Raven, "is at home, so far as I know. I saw him last
night."

"Go up there?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

Raven smiled a little, as if he found himself foolish or at best
incomprehensible.

"Well," he said, "I gave him every chance to skip. I hoped he would.
That would be the simplest way out. But when I found he wasn't going to,
I began to go there every night to let him see I was keeping an eye on
him. I don't go in. I just call him out and we stare over each other's
heads and I inform him you're better or not so well (the probation
dodge, you know) and he never hears me, apparently, and then I go away.
I've got used to doing it. Maybe he's go