pressing them against her like an armful of real babies. One flopped forward over her arm, uttering an absurd bleating squawk. Maaa-maa!
"The children," she exclaimed breathlessly. "The storm's coming. Hurry up with those beds; get the children back from the beach."
"They're all right," he said sulkily. "Mr. Martin'll take care of 'em."
His large flushed face, mouth open, gazed up from the floor. He looked pitiably silly, like a frightened dog. He was thinking, all I want to tell her is that I love her; no matter what happens I love her. But how can I say it? If she weren't my wife I suppose it would be so much easier. Why do we always show our worst side to the people we love?
She was thinking: The absurd idiot, writhing about under that bed like a roach, telling me to go and lie down when there are a hundred things to be done, beds to be made, towels and linen got out, silver counted, instructions to Lizzie. . . . Certainly she had tried to warn him. . . .
"Damn Mr. Martin!" she cried. "Don't trust him. You fool, you fool. Can't you see he's crazy? We're all crazy. Stop sprawling there like a mud turtle, do something."
"Listen, Phyl," he said heavily. "I want to
