n with her sewing. But when Mahony came back from the brisk
walk by means of which he got rid of his annoyance, he fancied, though
Polly was as cheery as ever and had supper laid for him, that her
eyelids were red.

This was why, the following evening, he promised himself to be discreet.

Winter had come in earnest; the night was wild and cold. Before the
crackling stove the cat lay stretched at full length, while Pompey
dozed fitfully, his nose between his paws. The red-cotton curtains that
hung at the little window gave back the lamplight in a ruddy glow; the
clock beat off the seconds evenly, except when drowned by the wind,
which came in bouts, hurling itself against the corners of the house.
And presently, laying down his book--Polly was too busy now to be read
to--Mahony looked across at his wife. She was wrinkling her pretty
brows over the manufacture of tiny clothes, a rather pale little woman
still, none of the initial discomforts of her condition having been
spared her. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up and smiled: did ever
anyone see such a ridiculous armhole? Three of one's fingers were
enough to fill it--and she held the little shirt aloft for his
inspection. Here was his chance: the child's coming offered the best of
pretexts. Taking not only the midget garment but also the hand that
held it, he told her of his resolve to go back to England and re-enter
his profession.

"You know, love, I've always wished to get home again. And now there's
an additional reason. I don't want my ... our children to grow up in a
place like this. Without companions--or refining influences. Who knows
how they would turn out?"

He said it, but in his heart he knew that his children would be safe
enough. And Polly, listening to him, made the same reservation: yes,
but OUR children....

"And so I propose, as soon as the youngster's old enough to travel, to
haul down the flag for good and all, and book passages for the three of
us in some smart clipper. We'll live in the country, love. Think of it,
Polly! A little gabled, red-roofed house at the foot of some Sussex
down, with fruit trees and a high hedge round it, and only the
oast-houses peeping over. Doesn't it make your mouth water, my dear?"

He had risen in his eagerness, and stood with his back to the stove,
his legs apart. And Polly nodded and smiled up at him--though, truth to
tell, the picture he drew did not mean much to her: she had never been
in Sussex, nor