There was naïve complacency in his tone: it expressed his sense of a wise measure successfully concluded—no more. No more—yet for an instant he had remained leaning towards her with the strangest mingling of indecision, emotion and intention in his pose, as if his body were wiser than his soul. But she, because she was frightened of her own happiness, and of him and his quick movement, sat quite still, restraining the answering gesture that would have won him: and the moment passed like a flower without fruit. Justin, lazing back again, smiled at her with his immemorial air of comfortable affection. Dear old Laura!... He was satisfied—pleased with himself and her. Minor satisfactions, seen reminiscently, subconsciously, out of the tail of his mind’s eye—the summer day, the summer sun, the eggs in his collecting box, the crisp, crunchable lettuce at lunch, his pipe and the smoke of his pipe—all added their mites to the sum of his content. Dear old Laura!... Her voice added itself soothingly to his meditations. He thought, as he listened to her, that old Valentine had talked through his hat that morning.... Laura rough? Laura shrill? Why, even he himself had never noticed before how low and soft her voice was.... For Laura was talking—talking for time: she feared the silence that had fallen upon them. She was not ready to be confronted with her naked bliss. Feverishly she sought for words in which to clothe, to veil it from herself. Yet she could think of nothing else. She began— “Justin—I’ll be so good to you. You’ll see. I’ll never get in your way. I’ll learn cooking. I’ll never read books till after tea. I’ll do everything——” The sentence died away happily. “I must say——” there was distinct gratification in Justin’s grave voice, “it seems an excellent idea. I wonder I never thought of it before. Mother’ll be awfully bucked. She likes you, you know.” He paused for Laura’s gratitude. But Laura, her heart full of dreams, forgot to respond. “And I can tell you, you ought to be jolly pleased. It isn’t every one Mother likes,” he added impressively. “Of course I’m pleased.” Laura smiled. “But I knew she did, Justin. She was always good to me. It was you—I didn’t know—I never thought——” She checked herself prettily. “That’s why,” he continued calmly, “it seems such a good arrangement. You know, I never have liked the idea of her being alone when I’m away: only she never will have any one but old Mary. But if I knew you were in the house I shouldn’t be uneasy. I shouldn’t have to hurry back so, then.” She lifted her head. For an instant her eyes had a strange, wise look in them, as if some older self, till then quiescent in her, were roused in her defence—were watching him with knowledge and foreboding of pain. The look passed in a smile, smile at Justin verging upon unusual enthusiasm; yet, though she herself did not know it, the look had been there.