The garden drew her, looking up at her with a bright, magnetic glance: the satisfying, intense, and comprehensive love for a garden caught her once more; she marveled because she had once cared more passionately for something else. All the things that should be blooming in that month were there. Daborn had been very good; not a single chrysanthemum--those choice, delicate ones--had been lost. He had taken cuttings from her dahlias, or preserved the tubers. They were there too. Her eyes dwelt almost tearfully on the blazing red cactus which had been her favorite. Her Japanese anemones, with their rough dull leaves, were heavy with pure white or pale pink flowers--widely open and waxen, like small saucers of the finest porcelain. She was going to be very happy in a placid way--the most satisfactory form of happiness. She would always be happy; the garden needed her every month of the twelve. She had passed the stage of rapturous, transient happiness; she was too old. As she looked in the glass, twisting her dull, abundant hair, she saw, for the first time, accusing, brutally frank lines across her face. She clasped the silver buckle at her waist with a click, and settled the crimson tie which made a mark of flame down the front of her white flannel shirt. She ran downstairs, humming under her breath, saying to herself that it was fortunate that Jethro was indifferent to the old, agitating passion--looking forward to his tepid, brother’s kiss above the eyes. It seemed as if the whole world of Folly Corner rejoiced at her return. There was a busy cackling in the poultry yard; the bees were flying in the sun; the geese went, in their waddling, ludicrously dignified way, along the dry road, cackling with satisfaction. It was like a May morning--so blue, so warm, so golden. It was like spring; all over the garden were little chirrups and snatches of song, as if the birds were nesting. The dining-room was empty; so was Jethro’s room. She went into the drawing-room, opened the window, jubilantly ran her fingers over the keyboard of the piano. Then she went into the kitchen; she must show herself, assert herself. Gainah was frying sausages over the wood fire in the back kitchen. She rigorously tabooed the new range, and she never allowed anyone to touch her sausages. She made them from the very foundation--putting in a good taste of sage, in the Sussex way. She fried them, set the dish on the table with her own hands. She had a reputation for her sausages. Some of them were sizzling in a copper pan, others waited, long and lean and red, on a plate close by. They were not very appetizing to look at, although they were admittedly delicious to eat. They gave out a great deal of fat; the pan needed frequent emptying.