'Is it? Of course! I might arrange a meeting, Roger.'
'Don't be absurd, Cicely.'
('No, don't. Don't. For heaven's sake!') Cicely said to herself. But against her will, against her wish, she heard her voice remarking scathingly, 'I don't admire cradle-snatching, Roger.' And Roger inquiring in that surprised, naïve way of his, 'Why, what's gotten into you, Cicely?'
What indeed had gotten into her? Evidently something that hadn't gotten into him! That was what hurt so. That was what made her so unreasonable. Oh, she mustn't spoil things. The precious moments were sifting away. She made a tremendous effort.
'Oh, nothing—nothing,' she assured him lightly. 'Let's talk of something else. Isn't the fresh snow lovely? See it on all the little branches.'
And then Roger smashed straight into her heroic effort, head on, shattering it completely.
'I've got it!' he exclaimed exultingly. 'I know now!'
'Know what, Roger?'
'What she reminds me of—the little high-school girl, I mean. It's a window—a stained-glass window in a church I sometimes stray into. A memorial window to a young girl. Shows her kneeling, looking up a flight of steps, towards heaven, I suppose, for
