To-day her mouth curved happily, the blood ran in and out of her face with the intensity of her emotion. Folly Corner was far behind her--behind forever; Aunt Sophy, Nancy, Annie--all the kind, slow-witted women--were mere phantoms; Jethro, clumping his fields stupidly, his head hanging, his big heart sore, was simply a rustic figure of no particular interest. That life at Folly Corner had been a different incarnation. The one moment when it seemed real was when a ruddy-faced man had brushed by her on the platform--a pointed Niphetos rosebud in his coat. She thought then fleetly of her garden, of all the bushes which had been her choice, which had been planted for her. She listened joyously to the hoarse voices of the drivers, to the mellow rattle of the piano-organ playing a tune which she had never heard. An orderly boy, looking pertly up in her face as she got into the cab, said: “Now we _shan’t_ be long.” That must be the new catchword; once she had been well up in these things. Edred had taken her to music-halls. How hot and misty and stuffy it was! And how delicious! She leaned back in the cab, laughing softly and continuously, like a mad thing. Then she began to be afraid, not knowing how Edred would receive her. Then she smiled again, knowing that she knew how to make herself adorable--at least for a little while. There were certain gestures, certain airs and words, which always pleased him. She coaxed a finger under her veil, and pulled a loose bit of hair on the temple over her brow. He liked loose hair. It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty--for London. The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat. Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meeting _you!_”--that must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she hated it, that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions! It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a milk cart.