“Don’t swing on that gate more than one at a time,” she called. “You’ll break the hinges.” And added, to justify herself in Martin’s ears, “Remember, chickens, it’s not _our_ gate.” They turned, surprised to see her following. “Children,” she began, “you run ahead, I want----” The alert, attentive faces of the little girls were too much for her. They gaped over the palings. They knew (she felt sure) that something queer was happening. They always know, as calmly detached as nurses in a hospital who smile faintly at what the patients say under ether. She hesitated, looking down at her ankles. How trim and orderly they were; when she put on those white silk stockings this morning she had had no idea of all this happening. She heard the gate clash to, but still paused, her face averted. She wanted her eyes to reach his slowly. For after that it would be too late to plan things. There was a lonely marching in her blood. Then, trembling, she looked. He wasn’t there. He too had run on with the children. All four, far down the hill, romping to the beach together. VII George was fixing the beds, and making an extra-special crashing and clanging about it for Phyllis’s benefit, so she would realize how irritating a job it was. I wonder (he was thinking) if any other man ever had to move furniture about so much? Phyllis has a passion for shifting beds. These springs don’t fit the frames. The result is that every time any one turns over there’s a loud bang, the corner of the spring comes down clank on the iron side-bar. I fixed it--not perfectly, but well enough--with a pad of newspaper and a length of clothesline, when we moved in. Good enough for the children. But of course for Ben and Ruth.... These can’t be the right springs for these beds. It stands to reason no manufacturer would be fool enough to send out a bed that couldn’t possibly be put together. There must be some trick of arrangement. Human reason can figure out anything, if concentrated on the problem. Now, let’s see. This goes here, and this here. Think of having to fiddle over these picayune trifles when the whole of life and destiny is thrilling in the balance. He was lying under the bed now, among curly grey rolls of dust, holding up the spring with one hand while the other reached for the hammer.