She had not even endorsed it. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with tenfold fury. “I didn’t understand, Vee. As for me, I look twice at it. Wood's," was the reply. ” She looked at him doubtfully. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. The phone did not ring. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility.
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