THE WINDOWconfident, upright, she created drawing-room andkitchen, set them all aglow; bade him take hisease there, go in and out, enjoy himself. Shelaughed, she knitted. Standing between her knees,very stiff, james felt all her strength flaring upto be drunk and quenched by the beak of brass,the arid scimitar of the male, which smote mercilessly, again and again, demanding sympathy.

He was a failure, he repeated. Well,“ lookthen, feel then. Flashing her needles, glancinground about her, out of the window, into the room,at James himself, she assured him, beyond ashadow of a doubt, by her laugh, her poise, hercompetence (as a nurse carrying a light across adark room assures a fractious child), that it wasreal; the house was full; the garden blowing. Ifheput implicit faith in her, nothing should hurt him;however deep he buried himself or climbed high,not for a second should he find himself withouther. So boasting of her capacity to surroundand protect, there was scarcely a shell of herselfleft for her to know herself by; all was so lavishedand spent; and james, as he stood stiff betweenher knees, felt her rise in a rosy—flowered fruittree laid with leaves and dancing boughs intowhich the beak of brass, the arid scimitar of hisfather, the egotistical man, plunged and smote,demanding sympathy.