like a sigh Vane laid down the last sheet, and, striking
a match, relit his pipe. Then once again his eyes rested on the misty,
purple hills. Margaret a successful doctor; himself literary educator
of the public taste. . . . It was so entirely different from any
picture he had previously contemplated, on the rare occasions when he
had thought about matrimony or the future at all, that it left him
gasping. It was perfectly true that he had scribbled a certain amount
in years gone by, when he was at the 'Varsity: but not seriously. . . .
An essay or two which he had been told showed distinct ability: a short
story, of possible merit but questionable morality, which had been
accepted on the spot by a not too particular periodical and had never
been paid for--that was the extent of his scribbling. And
yet--Margaret might be right. . . . One never knows till one tries:
and Vane grinned to himself as that hoary platitude floated through his
mind. . . . Then his thoughts passed to the other side of the picture.
Margaret, dispensing admonition and pills, in her best professional
manner, to long queues of the great unwashed. He felt certain that she
would prefer that section of the community to any less odoriferous
one. . . . And she'd probably never charge anything, and, if she did,
he would have to stand at the door and collect it, probably in penny
stamps. Vane's shoulders shook a little as this engaging tableau
presented itself. . . . What about the little hunting box not far from
Melton, where, in the dear long ago, he had always pictured himself and
his wife wintering? Provided always the mythical She had some money!
There would be stabling for six nags, which, with care, meant five days
a fortnight for both of them. Also a garage, and a rather jolly squash
racquet court. Then a month in Switzerland, coming back towards the
end of January to finish the season off. A small house of course in
Town--some country house cricket: and then a bit of shooting. . . .
One needn't always go to Switzerland either in the winter; Cairo is
very pleasant, and so is Nice. . . . It was an alluring prospect, no
less now than formerly; but it meant that Margaret's patients would
have to hop around some. . . . And they'd probably leave her if he
stood at the door in a pink coat and a hunting topper collecting
postage stamps. They are rather particular over appearances, are the
ragged trousered and shredded skirt brigade. . . .