London outside was gay and hot--all blue and yellow, all dust and eager noise. The top-heavy omnibus swung by, with gayly dressed women on the garden seats, fluttering bows of ribbon on the drivers’ whips. The big hats of the women, piled with feathers and imitation roses, made her think of her blazing flower borders at Folly Corner. She sat up, wiped her burning eyes, into which her bitter sorrow seemed to have corroded. She thought very calmly of Jethro--thought of the slow, easeful, reflective life which she had so lightly, so gladly, thrown out of reach. A year ago! They would have married--had a child, perhaps. His simple words--“A little son to come with me and beat in shooting-time; they soon grow up”--rippled in her throbbing head. A child! She might have had her own child by now. The dreadful ache of a barren woman caught her. She walked up and down the untidy room, her primrose trail dragging over the dusty carpet. She rang the bell, but no one came to clear. She hadn’t a duty in the world. It was hardly noon yet. If she crawled back to her bed and sobbed away the day, if she went headlong down through the oriel window--it made no difference. She was perfectly free to do exactly as she chose. She walked up and down in her misery and indecision, the August sun streaming into the room, where the bacon on the table was caked in a translucent layer of white grease, and the crumpled _serviettes_ were tossed to the floor. All her love, her passion, her folly, and heartlessness had ended in this--a mere vulgar marriage row. Row was the word he had used. Just an underbred squabble--they had plenty. They had flung words at each other--the usual taunts of an ill-sorted couple. She knew he’d come in as usual at night--Sutton behind, with his false air of subservience; Milligan at his side, his eyes roving about for her. She knew she’d put on her freshest dress. She knew. She was a miserable, plastic fool, hopelessly committed. Already she was no longer angry with Edred; only bitterly, sorely pained and degraded. If she could only travel past caring! But every bitter word of his found its frightful billet in her heart; every foul word pierced like a pointed weapon. Her love was riddled with the cruelest wounds, but not one was vital. She loved him. He had told her to go. Go! She laughed, picking up his pipe and kissing the stem ardently. The gay rattle and careless chaff ran under her yawning window. She started up suddenly and put on her out-of-door things. She went down the wide staircase thoughtfully, wondering what on earth she should do with the day.