Life is all a matter of adaptability. Given the qualities of kindness and a tolerant disposition, it is not difficult to be happy and to give happiness. In the case of large-hearted people love develops naturally; and Esme and George had known one another a long time and intimately; they were good comrades when they married; no feeling of strangeness or shyness marred the ease of their intercourse. Even when they returned and took up their residence in their new home it was all pleasantly familiar. They had chosen the house together, furnished it according to their mutual tastes: there was not a corner of the place, or a thing in it, they had not inspected together, discussed, disputed over, and finally come to agreement about. And Regret was there to welcome them, the faithful watch-dog which had been Esme's constant companion since the day when, as a puppy, John had placed it in her arms. She stooped down to pat the dog, which bounded out of the house and down the steps to meet her, jumping up and licking her hand. "He's a bit overwhelming in his attentions," George remarked. He despatched the coloured boy, who stood grinning on the stoep, to assist with the baggage, and put a hand in Esme's arm and drew her into the house. Everywhere there were flowers; masses of roses in bowls, and long sprays in taller vases of the crimson passion-flower. Esme stood still and looked about her with pleased eyes. "Rose has been busy here," she said. "It looks lovely, doesn't it? George, it's a dear little house; and the garden is wonderful." She stood by the window, looking out on the cool green of grass, on the blaze of colour from the flower borders, on neatly gravelled paths. Here, too, there were roses; the green of the lawn was patterned gaily with their petals which the soft, warm wind had scattered wide and blown into little heaps and again distributed these in a pleasing blending of colour; the path was covered with them, sweet-scented, and newly scattered by the breeze. "It looks festive," she remarked. "It looks as if the boy had better get to work with a broom," George replied. "Prosaic person?" she said, laughing. And added: "Let them stay. It's a sweet disorder, anyhow." He stooped to kiss her. "You are a sweet woman," he said, and put his arm about her, and stood looking with her out upon the small but pretty garden of their home. Pride of ownership filled the man's brain, flooded his heart with genial warmth, even as the sunlight which flooded the garden and shone hotly on the gaily coloured flowers in the borders. He felt that life had nothing more to offer him; his cup of happiness was full to the brim. But to the woman, looking out on the sunlight with him, such complete satisfaction was not possible. She was content. But the sun of her happiness had passed its zenith and was on the decline.