Bliss, and other stories

, rattling the windows, banging a piece of iron on the roof and making her bed tremble. Leaves flutter past the window, up and away; down in the ave

their pigtails and blue blouses fly out in the wind. A white dog on three legs yelps past the gate. It is all over! What is? Oh, everythi

s. . . . Now my best little Teneriffe-work teacloth is simply in ribbons. What

n next door to pick the “chrysanths” before they are ruined. Her skirt flies up above her waist; she tries to beat it down, to tuck it between her legs while she stoops, but it is no use-up it flies. All the trees

or shut! Go round to the back,” shou

the telephone. Telephone,

ow her hat-elastic’s snapped. Of course it would. She’ll wea

h have you got on your head? It looks like a tea cosy. A

, Mother. I’ll be

ck immed

es Mother. “Go to hell,” she

, and standing at the bottom of the road outside Mr. Bullen’s gate she can hear the sea sob: “Ah! . . . Ah! . . . Ah-h!” But Mr. Bullen’s drawing-room is as quiet as a cave. The wi

it over there in the so

rge and stale smoke and chrysanthemums . . . there is a big vase of them on the mantelpiece behind the pale photograph of Rubinstein . . . á mon ami Robert Bul

girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the pa

ing. Her fingers tremble so that she can’t undo the knot in the music satchel. It’s the wind. . . . And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her

asks, squeezing her hands toget

n hears . . . and then suddenly his fresh hand wit

ttle of the old

-and as though they had known each other for year

s hand-it is a very nice hand and always

re,” says

at minor movement. Here co

take th

dear c

ing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why i

it, dea

here-just by her head. She leans on it ever s

ll. He says something about “waiting” and “marking time” and “that rare thin

and in pops Marie Swains

r,” says Mr. Bullen, and gets up an

orner, little lady

und asleep.. . . Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She’s not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should. .

t you,

esplanade, Matilda. I can

ing the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited

better, i

n,” say

sphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky-just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have

ome on! Let

is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fi

cale. It’s funny-it makes you laugh-and yet it just suits the day. Th

er! Qu

r the coal hulks show two lights-one h

ey. Look o

a. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to . . .

Who ar

rother an

or the last time. There’s the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cri

r. They can’t see those two any more. Good-bye, good

nd-the