The Third Window

as it was, the low mullioned windows looking out on the high ring-court, it had, through some miscalculation in the lighting, an uncomfortably sombre air. They sat there, the three of them,

f it had kept to that tradition; the tradition, in fact, of making no attempts. As it was, it didn't match Miss Latimer,

anner, throwing from time to time a bit of bread or biscuit to the dogs. The task of talking to her fell entirely upon him, for Antonia, though composed, was evidently in no mood

ews, as he had hoped they might. "I found a nest once," she said:

Did you se

aw them going to and fro. I could have p

I've only once had a glimpse of one, flying. Queer, watchfu

her strange-l

at Miss Latimer herself l

ary curlew, haven't they?" he continued. "Y

hem any day. It is rathe

on her hand and looking out of the window, she remarked, unexpectedly: "I hate their cry; if it

bird. It's the sort of melancholy ordained by Providence to go wit

me think of something that has been forgotten; something that ha

orgotten. It is probabl

ory of the bird. Its cry sounds like the cry of

asked Miss Latimer. He distrusted the

ming not to follow their def

describes it ve

he garden. He saw that she intended to keep this companion

Antonia selected a sunshade from the stand. None were black; they were all pre-war sunshades, and the one she found

the hall, and, wondering if she had put a wholesome compulsion upon herself, he expressed an indirect

arrow beds among the flags, seemed like another expression of the stone. The fountain was musical, and the stone b

looked about her, her eyes meeting his for a moment as if, with a grateful humour, ack

n walls. There was a border castle here, long ago, and the cedar must have belonged to its

tand there in the sunlight and admire it with him. Any distaste or reluctance was Miss Latimer's, and he did not know why it was that he divined

d, grew thickly against the walls. Wide, herbaceous borders ran on either side o

eaps of the work herself, with spade and fork. Mrs. Wellwood had only the one gar

d it all," said Miss Latimer. Bu

out the loose chintz covers for the furniture, superintended the making of marmalade in spring and jam in summer, kept a careful eye on the store-cupboard and washed the dogs with her own hands. There were two dogs: an old Dandie Dinmont and a young fox-terrier; and he had, all the while they walked, a feeling, not a bit ghostly, amusing rather than sad, that they were bits of Malcolm's soul, detached

e paths. She wore still, rather absurdly, though the day was so fine and the paths so dry, her little black satin house-shoes, high-heeled and laced about the ankle with satin ribbon; and as she walked she cast her admiring, unobservant glances to right and left or

g views of the house that their walk disclosed, since, in answering him, it was always as if she avoided some attempt at intimacy and as if he could make no reference to the place without being

tonia. They were in the drawing-room, the tea-table had been taken a

arry you?" he asked. He asked it without s

and the cushions and firescreens in her London house recalled to him how many summer afternoons before the war when, on week-ends in the country, she had

u mean?" An

nt it? Would she hat

t he filled her again with deep delight. He and his passion were there, encompassing,

; but I believe it's true. I don't know about you. Bu

so much and seeing m

a moment, drawing out her silk. It was the qu

I? W

t afraid to

. But I'm not going to talk about them, or ab

all, I think. She's deep and narrow and s

. I'm constantly mak

find that I did; more and more; very, very much. Or, perhaps, it is trust, rather than liking," Antonia mused. "Poor little Cicely. Do you know, I don't think any one has

ed," Captain Salt

that Cicely had starved her, just as she starved Cicely. Neither could give the other anything except absolute trust. Cicely was the fonder, I think,

ounds, for a

onal, if one can make the distinction. There's no appeal of any sort; no demand. She never seems to need anything or to ask anything; perhaps that is why she doesn't gain d

d, when Malcolm wasn't here to give them an object? I n

goes to read to old bed-ridden women and to take them soup. I thought, in my London ignorance, that the lady-bountiful was a figure of fun to every one nowadays, flouted from the cottage door, and all the rest of it. But I've found out that there's nothing the cottage really loves so well. Independence and comm

nia's vagrant impressionism

, and French mémoires-translated and expurgated. Cicely has the most ingenuous ideas about the court of Louis the Fourteenth. Novels,

o, à plus forte raison,

sighed, although she did not look up at her companion. She and Bevis, adepts of the dance, had, before the war, danced together continually. "They liked seeing me do it," she said. "They liked my differences and what they felt to be my audacitie

at Captain Saltonhall, who had only heard her sing Brahms, Duparc, and Debussy, heard now old English folk-songs and "Better lo'ed you could na' be." She had a melancholy, sweet, imperfect voice, and though her singing had magic it was the flutelike, expressionless magic of the woo

he felt sure that she, too, was only apparently impassive. He