“You spoil things by expecting them too much, Emily,” said her employer, snatching facetiously at her dancing ankle. Tam McTab, that eminent journalist, had a large dark complacent face. His eyes, unexpectedly, were very pale grey. They were like lapses into vagueness in a vivid face. He had straight black hair, the front lock of which seemed grown at a different angle from the rest and either fell obliquely across his forehead or was blown upward by the wind. He had rather a fat, satisfied chin. He stooped, not so much with slackness as with alertness, as though he were leaning forward to catch the sound of something passing. His wife, Lucy, had a round, rather indeterminate face and pale drooping hair. Her clothes made her look collapsible and boneless. Even her hat was draped rather than set upon her head. Her lips looked stiff as though she were biting them constantly. Edward knelt at her side and looked at the fire rather helplessly. He lit several matches but they went out without doing any good. Rhoda Romero took command. It was dark at last and the stars crept in procession across the space of sky above them. The fire, a slowly spreading ring of fire rooting itself among the pine-needles, was between Edward and Emily. Lucy sat beside Edward. “Are you fond of reading?” asked Lucy nervously of Edward. She was trying to make a little safe alcove of conversation in the great silence that stood about them. She had not intended anyone else to hear her; she was obviously not really anxious to know whether Edward was fond of reading. But she was accustomed to rooms and to a polite murmur of talk. Emily heard her and said gushingly to Tam, “Do you play tennis, or is blue your favorite color? Lucy has brought the drawing-room even here. Lucy, won’t you even take off your hat? Is it because of the angels? St. Paul’s angels aren’t in the forest, surely.” Edward was hardly ever scornful except of himself. He knew too well the difficulties and dangers involved in being alive to despise those who sought for safety in tremulous platitudes. “I write more than I read,” he admitted in so low a voice that even the mocking Emily could not catch it. “I don’t write well, but I love writing.”