He thought of Cora Boyle again in the garden after luncheon. The children had left a green rubber ball on the turf. Mark rolled it about with one sole and watched Olive trim a patch of dull blue flowers. His place and the ball underfoot recalled something cloudy. He worked to evolve a real memory and laughed. Olive quickly glanced up. “You keep asking about my wife. She was boardin’ with us at the farm. First time she ever spoke to me I was kicking a ball around, in the garden. This way. I was barefoot. Cora said, ‘Ain’t you too old to go barefooted?’ I forget what I said.” “But with the ball that day you played no more?” “That sounds like a piece of a play,” said Mark. “It’s from a comedy,” Olive snapped, “Do get your hat and take a walk. I’ll be busy for an hour. Look at the Deanery garden. The Dean’s gone to Scotland.” “Got to write a letter first. Boat from Liverpool tomorrow.” He mailed a letter to Joe’s wife, born Margaret Healy, tramped down to the Close and examined the Dean’s garden. It would make a neat setting, the mass of the Cathedral to the left, the foliate house to the right. A maid in black and white passed over the grass and reminded him of Joe’s wife again by a certain dragging gait. He went into the cathedral and studied the Wykeham tomb from all angles. Some tourists hummed in the nave; a guide in a frock coat ambled after them descanting thinly of dead kings. Mark fell into a genial peace, leaned on a column, smiling at the far roof. The feet of the tourists made a small melody among the tombs and this seemed to increase. He heard a rapid breath and saw Olive with his coat over her arm. She panted, “I’ve packed your things. They’re in the cab. At the gates. Hurry. You’ve hardly time to get to the station. Do hurry! I’ll telegraph to Liverpool and ask them to hold a cabin--stateroom--whatever they call them.--Oh, do hurry!” “What’s happened?” “Oh, this!--I didn’t look at the cover--thought it was from Jack--” Mark snatched the telegram and read, “Joe and Margaret killed wreck Trenton come if--” then rolled the paper into his palm. Olive saw his eyes swell and gasped, “Who’s Margaret?” “Joe’s wife. Where’s cab?” “At the gates. Run.” He dashed into the sun beyond the open doors then the red hair gleamed as he came wheeling back to gulp, “Send you a check from--” Olive spread her hands out crying, “No! I shan’t take it!” and saw him rush off again. The cab made no noise that she could hear. She shivered as if a warming fire died suddenly in winter and left her cold. Presently she struck a palm on the stone beside her and said, “Sentimentalist! Sentimentalist!” while she wept. She made use of Mark, though, in her next novel, The Barbarian, which began her success. Mark was rather flattered by the picture and glad that he hadn’t insulted this clever, wise woman by making love to her. He thought of Olive as exalted from the ranks of passionate, clutching females and often wrote long, artless letters to her. III