hy
did you try to hide that photograph?"

She could not answer this question. She didn't know why, any more than
the little boys did. And it wouldn't do now, with the need to be
mistress-of-the-house till a call ended, to stop to try to think it out.
Later on, tonight, after the children were in bed, when she was brushing
her hair . . . oh, probably she'd find as you so often did, when you went
after the cause of some unexpected little feeling, that it came from a
meaningless fortuitous association of ideas, like Elly's hatred of
grape-jelly because she had once taken some bitter medicine in it.

"'View of the Roman Aqueduct, taken from the tramway line to Tivoli,'"
read out Paul.

"Very pretty view," said Mr. Welles.

Mr. Marsh's silences were as abysmal as his speech was Niagara-like on
occasion. He said nothing.

Elly stirred and looked toward the doorway. Toucle stood there, her
shoe-button eyes not blinking in the lamp-light although she probably
had been sitting on the steps of the kitchen, looking out into the
darkness, in the long, motionless vigil which made up Toucle's evenings.
As they all turned their faces towards her, she said, "The cereus is
going to bloom tonight," and disappeared.

Marise welcomed this diversion. Ever since that absurd little gesture
about the photograph, she had felt thickening about her . . . what? What
you call "depression" (whatever that meant), the dull hooded apparition
that came blackly and laid its leaden hand on your heart. This news was
just the thing. It would change what was threatening to stand stagnant
and charge it with fresh running currents. She got up briskly to her
feet.

"Come on, children," she said. "I'll let you sit up beyond bed-time
tonight. Scatter quick, and put on your things. We'll all go down the
road to the Powers house and see the cereus in bloom."

The children ducked quickly out of the room, thudding along softly in
their felt slippers. Scramblings, chatterings, and stamping sounded back
from the front hall, as they put on their boots and wraps.

"Wouldn't you like to come, too?" she asked the men, rescuing them from
the rather high-and-dry position in which this unexpected incident had
left them. It was plainly, from their faces, as inexplicable as
unexpected. She explained, drawing a long, plain, black silk scarf
closely about her head and shoulders, "Why, yes, do come. It's an
occasion as uniquely Ashleyian as pelota is Basque. You, Mr. Ma