carelessly; "look at it then."

The little boys bent their eager faces over it. Paul read out the title
as he had been doing for the other photographs, "'View of the Campagna
from the top of the cable-railway at Rocca di Papa. Rome in the
distance.'"

She had to sustain, for an instant, an astonished and disconcerted look
from all those eyes. It made her quite genuinely break into a laugh. It
was really a joke on them. She said to the little boys mischievously,
"What did Mother say? Do you find it very interesting?"

Paul and Mark stared hard at the very dull photograph of a cliff and a
plain and not even a single person or donkey in it, and gave
up the riddle. Mother certainly _had_ spoken to them in that
hide-it-away-from-the-children voice, and yet there was nothing there.

Marise knew that they felt somehow that Mother had unfairly slipped out
between their fingers, as grown-ups are always doing. Well, it wasn't
fair. She hated taking advantage of them like that. It was a sort of sin
against their awakening capacity to put two and two together and make a
human total, and understand what went on about them.

But it hadn't been against _their_ capacity to put two and two together
that she had instinctively thrown up that warding-off arm, which hadn't
at all warded off attention, but rather drawn it hard and scrutinizing,
in spite of those down-dropped sharp eyes. Well, there was no sum he
could do with only two, and slight probability he would ever get the
other two to put with it . . . whatever the other two might be.

Mr. Welles' pleasant old voice said, "It's a very pretty picture, I'm
sure. They certainly have very fine views about the Eternal City. I envy
you your acquaintance with all those historic spots. What is the next
one?"

Dear old Mr. Welles! What a restful presence! How unutterably sweet and
uncomplicated life could be with a good big dose of simplicity holding
everything in a clear solution, so that it never occurred to you that
what things seemed was very different from what they were.

"Ready to turn over, dears?" she asked the little boys. This time she
was in her usual control of the machine, regulated what she did from
the first motion to the last, made her voice casual but not elaborately
so, and put one arm around Mark's slim little shoulder with just the
right degree of uninterest in those old and faded photographs.

Very deep down, at the edge of consciousness, something asked her, "W