a green grocer's cart and the dragon a cross
between a leopard and a half-bred bulldog.

"Very amusing," she said, going over to it.

And the instant her back was turned, he opened a drawer in a sideboard
and satisfied himself that the thing which might have to put them into
Eternity together lay there, loaded.

II

"And now," he said gayly, "let's dine and, if you don't mind, I will
buttle. I hate servants in a place like this." He went to the head of
the table and drew back a chair.

Joan sat down, thanking him with a smile. It was hard to believe that,
with the words of that girl still ringing in her ears and the debris of
her hopes lying in a heap about her feet, she was going through the
process of being nice to this man who had his claims. It was unreal,
fantastic. It wasn't really happening. She must be lying face down on
some quiet corner of Mother Earth and watering its bosom with tears of
blood. Martin--Martin! It was all her fault.

Tomorrow she would be back again in the old house, with the old people
and the old dogs and the old trees and follow her old routine--old,
old. That was the price she must pay for being a kid when she should
have been a woman.

Palgrave stood at the sideboard and carved a cold chicken decorated
with slips of parsley. "Have you ever gone into a room in which you've
never been before and recognized everything in it or done some thing
for the first time that you suddenly realize isn't new to you?"

"Yes, often," replied Joan. "Why?"

"You've never sat in that chair until this minute and this chicken was
probably killed this morning. But I've seen you sitting in just that
attitude at that table and cut the wing of this very bird and watched
that identical smile round your lips when I put the plate in front of
you." He put it in front of her and the scent of her hair made him
catch his breath. "Oh, my God!" he said to himself. "This girl--this
beautiful, cool, bewitching thing--the dew of youth upon her, as chaste
as unsunned snow--Oh, my God...."

But Joan had caught the scent of honeysuckle, and back into her brain
came that cottage splashed with sun, the lithe figure of Harry
Oldershaw with his face tanned the color of mahogany and the clear
voice of "Mrs. Gray."

Gilbert filled her glass with champagne cup, carved for himself and sat
at the foot of the table. "The man from whom I bought this place," he
said, saying anything to make conversation and keep himse