* * * * * That afternoon Martin fished for trout in the stream, and she sat on the bank and read a page of her book now and then; and sometimes watched him; and mostly dreamed. His small-boyish absorption was amusing and rather appealing. He was immensely happy, moving along the bank in cautious excited silence, casting deftly up and down stream. If he were to be disturbed or upset in his pursuit, he would say ‘Ach!’ and swear, and flush all over his face, just as he had in the old days. Even if she were the disturber, it would make no difference. She knew better than to interfere, or to speak except when spoken to, and then briefly and to the point. That was in his eyes one of her most admirable qualities. He loved to have her beside him, behaving nicely and looking pretty, shewing interest, and smiling when it was seemly. By the constant upward curve of his lips and by occasional dwelling glances, she knew he had thrown off the memory of this morning’s unnatural emotional perplexities, and was content. If only their marriage could be a perpetual sitting on a green bank by a stream, watching him tolerantly, almost tenderly, with quiet pleasure in his bodily magnificence, with a half-contemptuous smile for his happiness, and yet with comfort in the knowledge of it, and in the knowledge that her mere presence was sufficient for it, while her mind was off on its own, worlds removed from him!... It would be such an immense easing of the burden if only so much insincerity as was implicit in the acquiescent body was required, without the lies of the lips and the mind. She on the green bank always, with leisurely musings, and he moving past her, up and down, not touching her or demanding or possessing, but fishing for ever: it would be a pleasant enough marriage. He would look up now and then, smile approvingly, and say: ‘Still there, Judith?’ ‘Still here, Martin.’ ‘Quite cheerful?’ ‘Quite.’ ‘Feeling safe?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘That’s right. Well, I’ll go on fishing then.’ ‘And I’ll go on thinking.’ And he would smile again and send his line whipping and hissing through the air. All the rest could go by, remain unsaid, with no falsehood at all. Perhaps, after years of patient sitting, even Roddy might be forgotten; or transformed into an object for idle pleasurable regrets. In the midst of these speculations, Martin came back and threw himself down beside her. ‘No luck, Martin?’ ‘Not a nibble.... I don’t care. I’d rather talk to you.’ He gazed lovingly at her and said: ‘What are you thinking of?’ She clenched her hands; then answered softly: ‘_ ... of nothing ... When I muse thus I sleep._’ He turned her face towards him with a hand beneath her chin, and gently kissed her lips. * * * * * ‘Oh, Judith, I’ll try to make you happy.’ ‘And I’ll try to make you happy, Martin.’ Perhaps in time.... Perhaps in time even Roddy....