He had forgotten the incident, as has been said, but at least he had no difficulty in remembering how his wife had taken the news. It had acted upon her like a charm, turning her, even at the mere prospect of escape, into a different creature, so that already she moved and spoke as if breathing a freer air. All evening they had debated the question, and had gone up to bed resolved upon accepting the unspoken invitation. He recalled Mattie’s elation over their luck, her gratitude to Providence, her almost childlike happiness. Yet it was he who had slept, that night, even under the sword of impending change; while she, for all that her prayer was about to be granted, had lain awake. And in the morning the whole of her evening dream had fallen to pieces.... She had come downstairs silent and apathetic, dimmed as a candle is dimmed by the coming of daylight. She ignored any reference on his part to the decision of the night before, and when he definitely tried to reopen the subject, she pushed it away. Later, when he insisted that the matter should be settled, one way or the other, she told him that she had given up all idea of leaving. “It’d make no difference, even if we did go,” she had said dully. “I didn’t see it, first thing, but I do now. It’d be the same thing over again, that’s all, and happen worse.” His heart had leaped in spite of him at the unexpected reprieve, but he had tried to encourage her, nevertheless. “What, it’ll be a fresh spot, anyhow!” he reminded her bravely. “That’s something, surely? Fresh folks and a fresh house, as well as a different sort of air, as’ll likely suit you better.” She shook her head. “It’d only look fresh on the outside. It wouldn’t _be_ fresh in any way as really mattered.” “If it’s the walls as is still bothering you, they’ve no call to, as I’ve told you already. The house at the new spot is outside the gardens altogether. I asked Colonel Brangwyn special.” But she refused to be heartened. “It’d be the same thing over again,” was all she would say, repeating herself endlessly. “Just exactly the same. You and me and the gardens, and me choking myself to death.” “What is it you _do_ want, d’you think?” he had asked her at last patiently, and she had shaken her head again, looking away from him almost shyly. “Nay, I don’t know. I’m daft, I suppose. It’s just _room_.... Ay, well, it’s no use talking about it any more. But you needn’t apply for Colonel Brangwyn’s.” Much the same situation had recurred at intervals, later on, but it had always ended in the same way. Always she had drawn back again at the last moment. Always it had seemed to her that she had found the right road at last, only to realise that it led nowhere. Always she had seen in time that, no matter where she went, to this country-house or that, she would always have the little ring of an English garden round her.