tions slipped away like sand in an hour glass. For an instant his only thought was a silly satisfaction that she must reach so far upward to meet his lips. His mind taunted him for thinking this.
"Dear fool, dear damned fool," he said. "Yes, you're just as you should be: lips cool and eyelids warm. And as soft as I always imagined. Oh, it's not fair that any one should be so soft. Joyce, do you know why I had to have you here? It's just a year . . . you remember?"
"Yes. The day you were looking out of the window. How long it seems."
"We begin to feel like a nice old unmarried couple."
She laughed, her rare broken laugh.
"Oh, George, then it is really you. The Fourth you, I mean. I couldn't quite believe it."
Voices came down from the loft. First it was Martin:
. . . "That's what I like about her. She looks as if she's happy inside."
Then Ruth, with a scornful snicker:
"Happy? I dare say. Did you see the way she looked at George at the dinner table? That kind of woman's always happy with someone else's husband."
