“He says that’s a milk moustache,” cried Rose, gesturing to the visitor. “It makes you healthy.” Phyllis made a clucking reproach with her tongue. “You mustn’t point. It’s not polite to say _he_. Say ‘Mr. Martin.’ Jay dear, after supper run and put away the mallets. I’ve told you, I don’t know how often, not to leave them lying on the lawn.... Oh, not _you_, Mr. Martin. Janet’ll do it after her supper.” But he was up already and gone to get them. I suppose this perpetual correcting sounds silly to him, she thought. But how can I help it? George never disciplines them. “It makes him hungry to watch us eat,” said Sylvia. “He wants some supper.” “He’s joking with you. We’ll have ours by and by.” She followed him into the garden. As she put her crisp silver slipper on the tread of the veranda steps she saw how the foot widened slightly to carry her weight. How terribly I’m noticing things. Something flickered at the corner of her eye: she suspected it was Lizzie, at the pantry window, trying to attract her attention. A throng of trifles jostled at the door of her mind, tapping for admission. Probably the ice has given out, after such heat. Well, then, they’ll have to do without cocktails. I can fix the sandwiches to-night when everyone’s in bed. If it turns chilly there won’t be enough blankets. Nounou won’t be back until late, I must get the children started to bed before.... I _won’t_ think of these things. He had put away the croquet implements. “Thank you. We’ve just time for a little stroll before the others get here.--I hope you’ll like Mr. and Mrs. Brook. They’re extremely nice, really, but a bit heavy.” “Perhaps they eat too much.” He said it with the air of one courteously offering a helpful suggestion. She had wanted, wanted so to be alone with him: she had a desperate feeling that there were urgent things to be said, and now she could utter nothing. Her mind ran zigzagging beside her, like a questing dog, while she tried to steer their talk into some channel of reality. Her thoughts kept crowding massively under her uneasy words, pushing them out before they were ready, cutting into her speech like italics in a page of swarthy Roman type. “We all eat too much in hot weather, I dare say. _Oh, if I could only write him a letter I could make him understand. He’s so sophisticated, I suppose the quaint things he says are his way of making fun of me. Why did I suggest our walking like this? You can’t see a person’s face when you’re walking side by side. And if we go round the path again, Lizzie will get me from the pantry._ Let’s sit down on the bench.” “It’s wet, it’ll spoil your pretty skirt.” Skirt!... What a word for this mist of silvery tissue she had put on specially for him.... “So it is. Well, let’s see what the storm has done to the roses.” The little walk under the trellis was flaked with wet petals.