Nan put her hand out to him suddenly across the table. He pressed it gently with long, white fingers. He felt his carefully balanced restraint tottering. When he was very small once he had tried to balance himself on the fence of the back yard above a rosebush in flower, and somehow the drone of the bees and the fragrance of the dull carmine flowers had made him dizzy, and he had lost his balance and tottered and swung his arms wildly. Then he had fallen and lain crying on the path among the fallen petals, his face all scratched and bloody from the thorns. He patted her hand gently. Neither of them spoke. "Dear Nan," he began when the silence had got to swirling fearfully about his head. "There are the Turnstables," said Nan sharply. "They are coming in here." They got to their feet. Mrs. Turnstable, in a long motor coat, came up to them, followed by her blonde son and daughter. "Why, Nancibel, how delightful to run upon you here. And how do you do, Mr. Macdougan? Why, this is luck ... Isn't it delicious here today. Our first real spring day." "Hello, Cousin Nancibel." Chairs scraped. Another table was pushed up. Under cover of the clinking of more teacups being brought and Mrs. Turnstable's musical voice talking about what a dreadful spring it had been, Fanshaw sat silent, feeling his frenzy of excitement ebb deliciously. This was saner. Control. Control. "O, Mr. Macdougan, have you seen Prunella? Such a beautiful play; I'm sure you'd like it. I've been twice, and I am taking the children tomorrow. So romantic and dainty ..." "It's a Pierrot play, isn't it?" "Yes, I was wondering if the veritable commedia del arte can't have been something like that." "Why very probably." While he talked Fanshaw was furtively watching James Turnstable's thin pink and white face. The boy was eating toast and staring at Nan with worshipping blue eyes. At length when she turned to him and said: "More tea, Jamesy," he grew red to the ears and stammered, "Please, Cousin Nancibel." An attractive kid, Fanshaw was thinking. O, the cycle of it. "There'll be lots of room ... We'll all go back to Boston together in my car," Mrs. Turnstable was saying. "Don't you love Marblehead, Mr. Macdougan?" * * * * Fanshaw's mother sat by the library window looking out into the garden that was full of the fiery chalices of Darwin tulips. "Once I'm well, Fanshaw, we must rebuild the garden. There aren't any paeonies. I've always wanted some of those beautiful yellow paeonies in the garden. You must get me some next time you see them in a flower shop." "I will, indeed, Mother," said Fanshaw from the easy chair where he was reading. "What are you reading, dear?" "Just a thing about Umbrian painters." "Come here and tell me about it... You never tell me anything about your work any more." Fanshaw moved to the window ledge beside her chair and stared out into the garden.