ower of rain and shake the
rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and
cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into
the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in
his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside,
and shut his eyes.

"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They were in their
bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the
dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes.

"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her fine light hair
fell over her cheeks.

"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a
stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him.

"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush:
"Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic. You're always
saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got to
know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen
on--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed back
her hair and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfully
absurd"--she bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this new
house and the servants you grudge me."

"Isabel!"

"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly. "You think they are
another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it," she said softly, "every
time you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have gone on living in
that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, there
wasn't enough room for the babies even."

No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to
find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having
rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were
playing shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on
the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel,
while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had
a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny.

Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with
blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at
the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don't you
think?"

But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he
hadn't the slightest idea that