ook them away from the
little boys, although she knew helplessly that this naturally made them
extremely keen not to miss any chance to catch a glimpse of such a one.
She could see that they thought it queer, there being anything so
exciting in this old album of dull snapshots and geographical
picture-postcards of places and churches and ruins and things that
Father and Mother had seen, so long ago. But you never could tell. The
way Mother had spoken, the sound of her voice, the way she had flapped
down the page quick, the little boys' practised ears and eyes had
identified all that to a certainty with the actions that accompanied
pictures she didn't want them to see. So, of course, they clamored, "Oh
_yes_, Mother, just one look!"

Elly as usual said nothing, looking up into Mother's face. Marise was
extremely annoyed. She was glad that Elly was the only one who was
looking at her, because, of course, dear old Mr. Welles' unobservant
eyes didn't count. She was glad that Mr. Marsh kept his gaze downward on
the photograph marked "Rome from the Pincian Gardens," although through
the top of his dark, close-cropped head she could fairly feel the
racing, inquiring speculations whirling about. Nor had she any right to
resent that. She supposed people had a right to what went on in their
own heads, so long as they kept it to themselves. And it had been
unexpectedly delicate and fine, the way he had come to understand,
without a syllable spoken on either side, that that piercing look of his
made her uneasy; and how he had promised her, wordlessly always, to bend
it on her no more.

_Why_ in the world had it made her uneasy, and why, a thousand times
why, had she felt this sudden unwillingness to look at the perfectly
commonplace photograph, in this company? Something had burst up from the
subconscious and flashed its way into action, moving her tongue to speak
and her hand to action before she had the faintest idea it was there . . .
like an action of youth! And see what a silly position it had put her
in!

The little boys had succeeded with the inspired tactlessness of children
in emphasizing and exaggerating what she had wished could be passed over
unnoticed, a gesture of hers as inexplicable to her as to them. Oh well,
the best thing, of course, was to carry it off matter-of-factly, turn
the leaf back, and _let_ them see it. And then refute them by insisting
on the literal truth of what she had said.

"There!" she said