by the aid of a hand lantern. He was reluctant to
go into the house, and he prolonged the unbuckling
of the familiar straps, the measuring of feed, beyond
all necessity. Outside, he thought he heard General
Jackson by the stream, and he stood whistling
softly, but only the first notes of the whippoorwills
responded. "The night's just come down all at
once," he said. Finally, with a rigid assumption
of indifference covering an uneasy heart, he went in.

Lettice was asleep by the lamp in the sitting room.
She looked younger than ever, but there were shadows
under her eyes, her mouth was a little drawn as
if by the memory of pain. A shawl, he saw, had
slipped from her shoulders, and he walked clumsily
on the tips of his shoes and rearranged it. Then he
sat down and waited for her to wake.

The flame of the lamp was like a section of an
orange; it cast a warm, low radiance through the
room. His gaze rested on the photograph of Lettice's
mother in her coffin. He imagined that paper
effigy of inanimate clay moved, turned its dull head
to regard him. "I'm getting old," he told himself
contemptuously, repressing an involuntary start of
surprise. His heart rested like a lump of lead in
his breast; it oppressed him so that his breathing
grew labored. His mind returned to Meta Beggs:
coldness like hers was not natural, it was not right.
He thought again, as men have vainly of such

[[203]]

p202 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p203w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p204

v?