"I'm not cold, thank you. I loved it. I felt as if we were another wind, we went so fast." "I wanted Basil to take the brougham," Mrs. Morton murmured. She had pictured herself settling Theresa in a chair, putting a cushion to her back, holding one of her hands, perhaps; but Theresa was standing very straight--her back seemed unusually strong--and she was smiling faintly, while her hands were occupied in the swift removal of her gloves. There seemed no point at which she could be conveniently caressed, and Mrs. Morton sank into the chair beside the tea-table. "You will be glad of tea," she said. "Basil, won't you make Theresa sit down? She looks so tired. Now, dear, you would like some hot toast." Theresa was in an uncertain temper, and if she had not been very eager for buttered toast, she would have refused it as a form of contradiction; but the sight of it shining in the hearth overcame annoyance with desire. She foresaw, however, a quick starvation if Mrs. Morton continued to accompany offers of food with these firmly uttered statements. "You had a tiring journey?" There was just a redeeming tilt at the end of the sentence, and Theresa condescended to consider it a question. "No thank you. I liked watching the country." "But in winter time it is all so sad." "But this is spring--almost! And I saw some lambs--the first. They're early here." And as she spoke she saw the green cleanliness of the earth when the snow has melted into it, and lambs, like little forgotten patches of that snow, leaping about the hills. She went on quickly. "And there were pigs. I like them. They're so greedy, and they don't pretend to care for anything except their--except what they eat." The subject of pigs was not encouraged. Basil was handing her more toast, as though he wished it were a kingdom, and she knew he was too much engaged with the joy of her presence to listen to her babblings. It was right that he should be happy at seeing her in the home they were to share, yet, in that moment, he lost something with which she once had dowered him. She eyed him critically. He was good to look at, and beauty always softened her; but his strongest appeal for her had been his distance, and here, among the teacups with his mother, he was too near, he almost seemed domestic. She realized the cold cruelty of her phase, she hoped it would not last, but she could do nothing to be rid of it. She was forced to her callous scrutiny, she was entirely shorn of any sense of possession, and while her mind told her she would recover her old sensations, her heart was like a dead thing in her breast. She knew the reason, for it lay on that heart which it had struck, and when she stirred she felt the sharp edge of Alexander's letter. She moved now, quickly. "She wants a cushion," Mrs. Morton cooed, but Basil was already propping Theresa's back. She smiled at him, from the lips, trying to feel the kindness that lay crushed.