"Mother," he said, without looking in her face, "what would you say if I were to marry some day?" "But then we couldn't go abroad this summer, could we, dear?" "I'm afraid we aren't going to be able to do that anyway." "Why?" "Because I'm afraid you won't be quite strong enough, dear." "How ridiculous, Fanshaw. Of course I'll be well in a couple of months. How long is it now since Dr. Nickerson said I'd be well in a couple of months?" "It's nearly a year, Mother dear. Of course he did not say that definitely ..." "You wait and see how quickly I'll get well ... But, Fanshaw, I don't believe in a boy marrying too young." "I'm nearly thirty, Mother, that's old enough surely." "Your dear father was thirty-five when he married me. And, Fanshaw, there are so many things we'll want to do together when I get well. And if that girl loves you as she ought she'll wait for you years if need be ... And the expense of the wedding and all that ... O, I think it's an extravagant idea." "I'll think about it, Mother." "O, darling, I've got such a headache." "Here comes Susan with your medicine, dear. That'll make you feel better." Susan stood over her, showing her long teeth in a smile. "Here's your tablet, mum, and I'm bringin' ye a cup of malted milk right away. "Thank you, Susan," said Mrs. Macdougan with a wan frown. "And be sure to make it sweet enough. It was just horrid yesterday." Susan's eyes met Fanshaw's. She smiled tolerantly as she smoothed the grey hair back from the old woman's forehead. * * * * There was a Hellenic purity about the sunlight along the river that afternoon, Fanshaw was telling himself, something that made one think of Praxiteles and running grounds at Olympia. The stadium in the distance across the meadows and the white bodies of the rowers in the shells stretching and contracting to the bark of the coxswains stood out like the reliefs on a temple against the azure and silver sheen of the sky and the river. From some birches by the river the notes of a song sparrow tumbled glittering. On the wind came an indefinable mushroom-scent of spring. Fanshaw's mind was full of suave visions of the future that evolved rosily like slow highpiled clouds. He would get a scholarship from the department on which they might live in Italy for a year. Extra money might be made appraising and attributing things for some art dealer. There would be Spain and Greece and North Africa. Magazine articles might appear about pictures and places. They could get a villa somewhere with lemon trees near the sea, breakfast in the morning leaning over the balustrade watching the bronzelimbed fishermen draw their boats up on the beach below; long strolls in the moonlight through overgrown gardens of myrtle and cypress, and Nan, dressed as she had been that night at the Logans (she would always dress that way--like a Renaissance princess), in his arms, silken and shuddering.