“No,” she replied to Bertie. “We’re very little later than usual. We’re having a sort of high tea, not dinner. Do you mind? It gives us such a nice long evening, uninterrupted.” “I like it,” said Bertie. Maurice was feeling, with curious little movements, almost like a cat kneading her bed, for his place, his knife and fork, his napkin. He was getting the whole geography of his cover into his consciousness. He sat erect and inscrutable, remote-seeming Bertie watched the static figure of the blind man, the delicate tactile discernment of the large, ruddy hands, and the curious mindless silence of the brow, above the scar. With difficulty he looked away, and without knowing what he did, picked up a little crystal bowl of violets from the table, and held them to his nose. “They are sweet-scented,” he said. “Where do they come from?” “From the garden—under the windows,” said Isabel. “So late in the year—and so fragrant! Do you remember the violets under Aunt Bell’s south wall?” The two friends looked at each other and exchanged a smile, Isabel’s eyes lighting up. “Don’t I?” she replied. “_Wasn’t_ she queer!” “A curious old girl,” laughed Bertie. “There’s a streak of freakishness in the family, Isabel.” “Ah—but not in you and me, Bertie,” said Isabel. “Give them to Maurice, will you?” she added, as Bertie was putting down the flowers. “Have you smelled the violets, dear? Do!—they are so scented.” Maurice held out his hand, and Bertie placed the tiny bowl against his large, warm-looking fingers. Maurice’s hand closed over the thin white fingers of the barrister. Bertie carefully extricated himself. Then the two watched the blind man smelling the violets. He bent his head and seemed to be thinking. Isabel waited. “Aren’t they sweet, Maurice?” she said at last, anxiously. “Very,” he said. And he held out the bowl. Bertie took it. Both he and Isabel were a little afraid, and deeply disturbed. The meal continued. Isabel and Bertie chatted spasmodically. The blind man was silent. He touched his food repeatedly, with quick, delicate touches of his knife-point, then cut irregular bits. He could not bear to be helped. Both Isabel and Bertie suffered: Isabel wondered why. She did not suffer when she was alone with Maurice. Bertie made her conscious of a strangeness. After the meal the three drew their chairs to the fire, and sat down to talk. The decanters were put on a table near at hand. Isabel knocked the logs on the fire, and clouds of brilliant sparks went up the chimney. Bertie noticed a slight weariness in her bearing. “You will be glad when your child comes now, Isabel?” he said. She looked up to him with a quick wan smile. “Yes, I shall be glad,” she answered. “It begins to seem long. Yes, I shall be very glad. So will you, Maurice, won’t you?” she added. “Yes, I shall,” replied her husband. “We are both looking forward so much to having it,” she said. “Yes, of course,” said Bertie.