prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE.

Of course he knew--no man better--that he hadn't a ghost of a chance,
he hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous.
So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her father--well,
whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In fact,
nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was
positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have
screwed him up to it. And even now... He chose a tie out of the chest
of drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed.
Supposing she replied, "What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Not
in the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down
over the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn't see,
if he looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say.

Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammed
his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket
pockets. Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm in--of
all places--Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance
of his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all
that sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't
even boast of top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked
him out so thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was
still fearfully pale--worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought,
bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What had
happened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn't
green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And then the green
light trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside.
Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how the
mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted
over to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one
blessed thing in his favour, while she... Ah!... He stopped dead, folded
his arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers.

And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the fact
that she was an only child and far and away the most popular
girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her
cleverness--cleverness!--it was a great deal more than that, there
was really nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it been
necessary, she would have been a genius at anything--in spite of the
fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they'd as soon let
her go all that way as... In spite of every single thing you could think
of, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. Well, was
it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of looking
after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she
wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect--just love?
How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and
murmured to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he was
with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep.
Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay
on her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips,
her ear like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it.
They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away.
Then she woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes.
Are you all right? Here, let me--" And he leaned forward to... He bent
over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it
gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from
the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, "Well, I can only try
my luck, that's all."

But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately.
Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the
ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater
and all that. She--she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on.
But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had
been moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died
and left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow's
only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made
it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She
wasn't only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with
all her own and the governor's relations before Reggie had won his first
trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting
on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear,
what is Life but Love?" his only vision was of the mater, tall and
stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at her
heels...

The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead
something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie.

"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked, seeing that he was.

"I'll be back for tea, mater," said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands
into his jacket pockets.

Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped.

"I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last
afternoon," said she.

Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater's.
Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she
looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain eyes
gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world
were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little
beggars; they were getting it!

"And where are you going, if your mother may ask?" asked the mater.

It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out
of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he
noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the
morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was
clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing
over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off
the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!--another drummed
on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how
big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here
was Colonel Proctor's--here it was already. His hand was on the gate,
his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered
over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether.
He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was
walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can't
be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull,
and started it pealing wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was on
fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door
flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that
confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the
big room, shadowy, with some one's parasol lying on top of the grand
piano, bucked him up--or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet
in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling
was not unlike that of being at the dentist's; he was almost reckless.
But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself
saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me... " That
pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too
late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space
between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice,
"I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town,
hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie."

Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered
out, "As a matter of fact, I've only come... to say good-bye."

"Oh!" cried Anne softly--she stepped back from him and her grey eyes
danced--"what a very short visit!"

Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft
peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it,
playing with the tassel of the parasol.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why I
do. It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe,
and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I really
must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she.

"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I
can't imagine anything more--"

But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing;
it wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since
that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to
God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where
they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being
as serious as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was
concerned--but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would
glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips
parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing.

Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herself
know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her
cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal
sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing." It was a
mystery...

Now she tucked the handkerchief away.

"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in
that little box beside you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for
her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl
ring she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne.

"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of
smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it.

"It's--it's frightfully hard to believe," he added.

"Yes--isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled
the point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful
she looked like that!--simply beautiful--and she was so small in that
immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her
voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been here
for years," she said.

Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. "It's ghastly, this idea
of going back," he said.

"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo," sounded from the quiet.

"But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?" said Anne. She hooked
her finger through her pearl necklace. "Father was saying only the other
night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own." And
she looked up at him. Reginald's smile was rather wan. "I don't feel
fearfully lucky," he said lightly.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo," came again. And Anne murmured, "You mean it's
lonely."

"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about," said Reginald, and he
stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. "I could stand any
amount of it, used to like it even. It's the idea of--" Suddenly, to his
horror, he felt himself blushing.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"

Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to my doves," she said. "They've
been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reggie?"

"Awfully," said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French window
for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves
instead.

To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove
house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One
ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly
bowing and bowing. "You see," explained Anne, "the one in front, she's
Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs
forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laugh
again. Away she runs, and after her," cried Anne, and she sat back on
her heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and that's their
whole life. They never do anything else, you know." She got up and took
some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. "When
you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what
they will be doing... "

Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word.
For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to
tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. "Anne, do you think
you could ever care for me?" It was done. It was over. And in the little
pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue
quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anne
turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then
slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured
slowly, "No, never in that way." But he had scarcely time to feel
anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the
steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the
lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced
Reginald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you," she said. "I
am. But"--her eyes widened--"not in the way"--a quiver passed over her
face--"one ought to be fond of--" Her lips parted, and she couldn't stop
herself. She began laughing. "There, you see, you see," she cried, "it's
your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one really
would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats
wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, please!"

Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. "There's no question of
forgiving you," he said quickly. "How could there be? And I do believe I
know why I make you laugh. It's because you're so far above me in every
way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to--"

"No, no." Anne squeezed his hand hard. "It's not that. That's all wrong.
I'm not far above you at all. You're much better than I am. You're
marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I'm none of those
things. You don't know me. I'm the most awful character," said Anne.
"Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not the point. The point
is"--she shook her head--"I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at.
Surely you see that. The man I marry--" breathed Anne softly. She broke
off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled strangely,
dreamily. "The man I marry--"

And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger
stepped in front of him and took his place--the kind of man that Anne
and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from
nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one
long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere...

Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see," he said huskily.

"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid
about it. It's so hard to explain. You know I've never--" She stopped.
Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it funny?" she said.
"I can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very
beginning."

He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad." She went on. "I've never known any
one I like as much as I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one.
But I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talk
about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel.
But we'd be like... like Mr. and Mrs. Dove."

That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that he
could hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home," he said, and he turned away
from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage,
with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent
smoke hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throat
ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home," he
croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him.
"No, don't. You can't go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't possibly
go away feeling like that." And she stared up at him frowning, biting
her lip.

"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie, giving himself a shake. "I'll...
I'll--" And he waved his hand as much to say "get over it."

"But this is awful," said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in front
of him. "Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don't
you?"

"Oh, quite, quite," said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes.

"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for
Mr. and Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real life--imagine it!"

"Oh, absolutely," said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Anne
stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, this
time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was going
to cry.

"Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?" she wailed. "Why
do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so aw-awful?"

Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. "I can't help it," he
said, "I've had a blow. If I cut off now, I'll be able to--"

"How can you talk of cutting off now?" said Anne scornfully. She stamped
her foot at Reggie; she was crimson. "How can you be so cruel? I can't
let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as you
were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that, it's so
simple."

But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly
difficult.

"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that you're all that
way away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you're
miserable, and that it's all my fault?"

"It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate." Reggie took her
hand off his sleeve and kissed it. "Don't pity me, dear little Anne," he
said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink arches, along
the garden path.

"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" sounded from the veranda. "Reggie,
Reggie," from the garden.

He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she
gave a little laugh.

"Come back, Mr. Dove," said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across the
lawn.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Reggie knew he had little chance of convincing Anne Proctor to marry him. While dressing in his room Reggie imagined the different ways in which Anne would reject his proposal but he felt he had to at least try before he left. His Uncle had given him a fruit farm in Rhodesia and he was due to leave England for the island the next day. Putting his tie on, and lamenting his less than handsome appearance, Reggie daydreamed of taking Anne away to his fruit farm and holding her in his arms. He loved her with all of his heart and perhaps his love would be enough for both of them. Reggie knew that Anne was the most popular desirable woman in the neighborhood and thought she was absolutely perfect. He admired her parents, Col. Proctor and his wife very much but knew they would not want Anne to move so far from home. Reggie understood all that was stacked against him, including his frequent bouts of ill health and modest income but he had to know if Anne could ever care for him as he did her. Setting out Reggie came upon his mater as she was walking up the garden path with her two dogs and a pair of scissors. She asked in an authoritative voice where he was going and told him he should be staying home to spend his last day with her. Reggie noted her tone of disapproval and winced as she trimmed flower stems. He did not tell her where he was going and set out for the Proctor house. On his way he reflected that being a widow's only son was a terrible burden. He had no other family to turn to -- his mother had isolated herself when he was a boy. Reggie loved and admired his mother especially her iron spirit but he thought her a grim parent overall and wished things had been different between them. The air was moist as he turned onto the Proctor property. Reggie realized he did not know what he wanted say to Anne. Just as his hand rang the bell he panicked, realized he wasn't ready to talk at all and needed more time but the maid answered the door almost immediately and ushered him into the sitting room. Reggie prayed for courage "Lord Thou knowest, Thou has not done much for me..." The bell was still sounding when Anne herself came into the room. Anne extended her hand to Reggie and told him her parents were out but she would be happy to entertain him. Reggie stammered a reply and told her he had come to say goodbye. Anne was startled by this news for a moment and then she began to laugh uncontrollably. Anne had done this to him many times before. In fact there were times when she could not stop laughing at him even when there was nothing to laugh at. She called it her bad habit and apologized. Reggie told her he loved to hear her laugh although neither knew why she laughed at him. Reggie suspected it troubled her and presently she calmed herself and offered him a cigarette. Reggie thought she looked stunning sitting as she did. They made small talk about his plans to return home and they could hear the cooing of Anne's pet doves. Reggie confided that he hated the thought of going back to the fruit farm. Anne told him her father deeply admired Reggie for making his own way in life but she thought he must be lonely all by himself so far from home. Reggie began to blush and said he didn't mind the loneliness but he would miss... As Reggie's voice trailed off, his meaning became uncomfortably clear and Anne had jumped up from her chair and moved away from him, inviting him into the side veranda to see her doves. Reggie opened the door of the veranda for Anne and she walked past laughing, he assumed at the doves. In their cage the two doves walked back and forth: the male dove bowing and chasing the female, the female beckoning him forward but never allowing herself to be caught. Anne said they did this all the time and she had named them Mr. and Mrs. Dove. While she was feeding the doves, Reggie asked Anne if she could ever care for him and she replied that she could not. Reggie hardly had time to come to terms with what she said. Anne had walked past him and down the garden path to the lawn. There she told him that she did care for him and liked him very much but she couldn't marry a man she laughed at and she did just that. Anne began to laugh at Reggie saying it was his tie that she thought was funny but she could see it upset him and she apologized. Reggie grasped her hand and said he understood that she was above him in everyway and knows he's ridiculous but he would like the chance to prove his worth to her. She cut him off. Anne said she was the one with the flawed character, she was a dreadful person and Reggie was kind and he deserved better. Anne said the way she felt for Reggie was not like the love she read about in books or what she had imagined love would feel like. Anne hoped he understood because she did care for him, as a person, and she did not want him to go away with sad thoughts and to think she was horrible and to only have his mater to write to... Then she compared them to Mr. and Mrs. Dove saying it wouldn't be fair to either of them. That he would always be chasing her and she would be laughing at him and running away. They would not have a good marriage. It was too much for Reggie. To be compared to doves. He walked across the lawn and said he would get over her in time and for her not to worry about him but Anne called out to him. "How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for Mr and Mrs Dove. But imagine that in real life- imagine it!" Reggie was surprised to see that Anne was no longer laughing: she looked as if she wanted to cry. She said he was cruel to walk away now before she was satisfied that he would be happy when he went away. She could not stand the thought of him being upset with her. She asked him to go back to how he felt before he had asked her to marry him but Reggie could not do that. He told her not to pity him and said it was fated that they should not be together and he turned and fled down the lawn away from her. Then Anne called out to him and he stopped and turned and she saw his puzzled face and she laughed. "Come back, Mr. Dove" . And he did.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
5. THE YOUNG GIRL.

In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes,
and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time--pinned up
to be out of the way for her flight--Mrs. Raddick's daughter might have
just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintly
astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it,
too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased--why should she?--to
have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored--bored
as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for
croupiers and crowns to play with.

"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't?
There's the car, and you'll have tea and we'll be back here on this
step--right here--in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She's not
been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her."

"Oh, shut up, mother," said she wearily. "Come along. Don't talk so
much. And your bag's open; you'll be losing all your money again."

"I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs. Raddick.

"Oh, do come in! I want to make money," said the impatient voice. "It's
all jolly well for you--but I'm broke!"

"Here--take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick
pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors.

Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a
very broad, delighted smile.

"I say," he cried, "there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take
dogs in there?"

"No, they're not."

"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. They
frighten people so, and they're never fierce with their--the people they
belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I say, do look at that old
woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?"

The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black
velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly
up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She stared in
front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself; her
claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag.

But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again with--her--and
another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. She
was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a woman
who is saying "good-bye" to her friends on the station platform, with
not a minute to spare before the train starts.

"Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky! You've not gone. Isn't that
fine! I've had the most dreadful time with--her," and she waved to
her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down,
twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. "They won't let her in. I
swore she was twenty-one. But they won't believe me. I showed the man
my purse; I didn't dare to do more. But it was no use. He simply
scoffed... And now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she just
won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privee--and she wants me to go back
with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave--her. But if
you'd--"

At that "she" looked up; she simply withered her mother. "Why can't
you leave me?" she said furiously. "What utter rot! How dare you make
a scene like this? This is the last time I'll come out with you. You
really are too awful for words." She looked her mother up and down.
"Calm yourself," she said superbly.

Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was "wild" to go back
with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time...

I seized my courage. "Would you--do you care to come to tea with--us?"

"Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I wanted, isn't it,
darling? Mrs. MacEwen... I'll be back here in an hour... or less... I'll--"

Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again.

So we three were left. But really it wasn't my fault. Hennie looked
crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark
coat round her--to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as
though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us.

"I am so awfully sorry," I murmured as the car started.

"Oh, I don't mind," said she. "I don't want to look twenty-one. Who
would--if they were seventeen! It's"--and she gave a faint shudder--"the
stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!"

Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window.

We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with
orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs.

"Would you care to go in?" I suggested.

She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. "Oh well,
there seems nowhere else," said she. "Get out, Hennie."

I went first--to find the table, of course--she followed. But the worst
of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That
was the last, final straw--having that child, trailing at her heels.

There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little
blue tea-napkins for sails.

"Shall we sit here?"

She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair.

"We may as well. Why not?" said she.

Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt
awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her
eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced
and bit her lip again. Silence.

The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? China
tea--or iced tea with lemon?"

Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really
want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!"

But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you
may as well bring me a chocolate, too."

While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in
the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed
her lovely nose.

"Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away." She pointed with her puff
to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on
a table." They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she
positively closed her eyes as I moved them away.

The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the
big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie
buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little
trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a
little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to
her cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by
chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered.

"Dreadfully sweet!" said she.

A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came
round with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little
inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm
not at all hungry. Take them away."

He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have
been satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair,
a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh
strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy
swerved away she held up her plate.

"Oh well, give me one," said she.

The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't
know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I
shan't eat them; I couldn't!"

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even
asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened
her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect
people to."

But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry
horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table.
Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed
hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.

"You utter little beast!" said she.

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be
abroad long?"

But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was
trying to remember something... She was miles away.

"I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place.

"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--"

When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled.
"More--?"

"Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette.

But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that
depends!" was all she could safely say.

Hennie had finished. He was still very warm.

I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice,
Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What
about a fresh pineapple cream?"

Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was
taken when she looked up from her crumbs.

"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one."
And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from
the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too
sickening!"

But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me.

"I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Hennie?" I said.

Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it very low, but it came out
very high in a kind of squeak.

Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying
to see what there was... She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very
good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black
ribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air
where he was. She looked through and through him.

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie
looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She
had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She
tugged at it--tried to break the stupid little thing--it wouldn't break.
Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't
stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned
away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.

And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was
sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for
the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her
foot, looking down.

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back
with--oh--such a sigh!

"Tell him," she gasped, "to drive as fast as he can."

Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. "Allie veet!" said he. Then
he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us.

The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was
shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and
the mirror.

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing
through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he
were hanging on to something.

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there.
There wasn't a sign of her on the steps--not a sign.

"Will you stay in the car while I go and look?"

But no--she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She
couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps.

"But I scarcely like to leave you," I murmured. "I'd very much rather
not leave you here."

At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips
parted. "Good heavens--why! I--I don't mind it a bit. I--I like
waiting." And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark--for
a moment I thought she was going to cry. "L--let me, please," she
stammered, in a warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting!
Really--really I do! I'm always waiting--in all kinds of places... "

Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat--all her soft young body
in the blue dress--was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark
bud.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mrs. Raddick's and her beautiful daughter waited on the steps of the casino. The daughter was incredibly beautiful with flushed cheeks, blue eyes, and golden curls. She "might have just dropped from this radiant heaven" , and Mrs. Raddick seemed to think so too -- if her appreciative glances were any indication. The girl; however, appeared only bored as if heaven had been full of casinos and they no longer held any interest for her. Mrs. Raddick approached me, her handbag half open with its money in danger of falling out. Her twelve-year-old son Hennie followed behind. She thanked me for taking Hennie for the day so that she could go into the casino with her daughter. "Oh shut up, mother" the girl said and her mother did. Desperate to please the girl, Mrs. Raddick gave her a hundred francs to use in the casino. They breezed by me and went up the steps to gamble. Hennie spotted an older woman and was disturbed by her unkempt appearance and asked me if she was a gambler. While Hennie and I are still waiting on the steps of the casino for the car to arrive, I was surprised to see Mrs. Raddick, return, her daughter trailing behind her. Mrs. Raddick implores me to take both Hennie and the girl out. As it turns out her daughter is too young to gamble and Mrs. Raddick has had a terrible time dealing with her. The girl stood on the steps nearby, a disdainful expression on her face as if the whole world were beneath her. Another woman, Mrs. MacEwen from New York, hovered in the background. Mrs. Raddick explained that Mrs. MacEwen had already won a large sum of money and they were going back into the casino to try their luck with her winnings. Mrs. Raddick left the three of us on the steps and return to the casino. Hennie looked devastated and I was irritated but tried to make the best of a bad situation. When the car arrived the girl wrapped herself in her coat and "even her little feet looked as thought they scorned to carry her down the steps to us" . In the car the girl said she didn't want to go to the casino anyway and be stared at by fat old men. We drove to a large palace of pink and white marble for tea. Once inside I chose a table and the girl reluctantly sat down, wincing at the sound of a violin playing nearby. We ordered drinks and although the girl claimed to not to want anything she ordered a hot chocolate; Hennie did the same. I watched the girl take out her powder-box with a mirror on the lid and dab makeup on her nose with a small puff. She told Hennie to remove the flowers on the table and closed her eyes during the process as if she were in intense pain. The waitress arrived with the drinks and the girl pronounced her hot chocolate too sweet. A boy came around with a tray of pasties and Hennie took some for his own plate. The girl could not watch Hennie while he handled his food and asked for only one pastry from the tray. The boy gave her four instead and the girl laughed, saying she couldn't eat them all. I began to relax and felt more comfortable in the girl's presence. I asked her if I could smoke at the table, to which she replied, "Of course, I always expect people to" . Hennie speared one of his tartlets too hard and half of it shot off of his plate. The girl yelled at him and to defuse her anger I asked if she liked being abroad. She considered this for a long time and gave a noncommittal response. Her mind was miles away. They ordered ice cream next and I asked the girl if she liked it here and she looked around as if she did not know the place at all. An attractive older man stared openly at her from across the room but she looked through him, her lovely eyes trained on something no one else could see. Finally tea was over and I sensed that the girl wanted to leave. She had trouble getting her glove over her diamond bracelet and turned away while I paid the bill. We climbed back into the car and the girl asked that the chauffeur to drive as fast as he could back to the casino. The powder-box reappeared and she shared a "deadly-secret" glance with her reflection. Mrs. Raddick was not there to meet us when we arrived and I asked the girl to wait in the car but she grew distressed saying she wanted to wait on the steps and that she was always waiting around at one place or another. I watched her for a moment. "Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat- all her soft young body in the blue dress- was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud" .


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
6. LIFE OF MA PARKER.

When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every
Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her
grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall,
and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door
before she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly.

"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in
a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very
shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand.
But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room
without saying something--something more. Then because these people set
such store by funerals he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off all
right."

"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily.

Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was
a--a--success," said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head
and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held
her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary
gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast.

"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.

Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind
the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she
tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots
or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for
years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was
drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied
the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her
knees...

"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots.
He'd just come in from playing in the street.

"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into--you wicked boy!"

But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers.

"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed.

"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies."

"Yes, you 'ave."

"No, I ain't."

"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"

Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse.

"Well, what'll you give your gran?"

He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid
quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured...

The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and
took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the
kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the
washing-up bowl.

It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During
the week the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he
emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that
purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two
on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his
"system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made
all this fuss about housekeeping.

"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to
clean up, and the thing's done."

The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered
with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no
grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look
after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense
expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked
very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark
stains like tea.

While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes,"
she thought, as the broom knocked, "what with one thing and another I've
had my share. I've had a hard life."

Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with
her fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over
the area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma
Parker." And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was
just as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27.
A hard life!...

At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid.
Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people
were always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until
she saw it on the theatres.

Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fire-place
of a evening you could see the stars through the chimley," and "Mother
always 'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling." And there was
something--a bush, there was--at the front door, that smelt ever so
nice. But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once or
twice in the hospital, when she'd been taken bad.

That was a dreadful place--her first place. She was never allowed out.
She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a
fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her
letters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the range
because they made her dreamy... And the beedles! Would you believe
it?--until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma
always gave a little laugh, as though--not to have seen a black beedle!
Well! It was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet.

When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and
after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married
her husband. He was a baker.

"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For
occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this
product called Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!"

Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.

"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman.

Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.

"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?"

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal.
We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the
'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!"

"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and
taking up his pen again.

Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was
taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told
her at the time... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over
his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back.

"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor,
"you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my
good fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or
whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her
poor dead husband's lips...

But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and
keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were
old enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with them
to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months
when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five
years Ma Parker had another baby--and such a one for crying!--to look
after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her;
the two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and
Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died
of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie--my
grandson...

The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The
ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off
with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the
sink that had sardine tails swimming in it...

He'd never been a strong child--never from the first. He'd been one of
those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he
had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his
nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things
out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel
would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing.

"Dear Sir,--Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out
for dead... After four bottils... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still
putting it on."

And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter
would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work
next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it
on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice
shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite.

But he was gran's boy from the first...

"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove
and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so
close, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under her
heart--laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!"

At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman
appeared, dressed for walking.

"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."

"Very good, sir."

"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you
didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?"

"No, sir." "Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of
cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll
always tell me when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And
he walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact,
he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as
vigilant as a woman.

The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But
when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought
of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's
what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to
arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a
child suffer like that.

... From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though
something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in
his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang
out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump
bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than
all was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke
or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.

"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker,
patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie
moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he
looked--and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as
though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.

But at the last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she
simply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too much
in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself
to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living
soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a
proud face always. But now! Lennie gone--what had she? She had nothing.
He was all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it
all have happened to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma
Parker. "What have I done?"

As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found
herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on
her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in
a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so
dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away--anywhere,
as though by walking away he could escape...

It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went
flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod
like cats. And nobody knew--nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at
last, after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in the
lock-up as like as not.

But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in
his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants
to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything,
beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the
doctor's, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the
children's leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to
Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a
long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She
couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more... Where could
she go?

"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her
chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?

She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out
of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come
arsking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's
flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some
steps a policeman would speak to her.

Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to
herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and
nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could
have her cry out--at last?

Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron
into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The literary gentleman opened the door of his flat to Ma Parker, his housekeeper. He asked after her beloved grandson, Lennie. Ma Parker replied, "We buried 'im yesterday, sir" . Shocked, the gentleman offered his condolences and asked after the success of the funeral. Ma Parker did not elaborate and walked past him to the kitchen with a bag that held her cleaning supplies. The literary gentleman felt very sorry for her and watched her for a moment before returning to his breakfast. In the kitchen Ma Parker took off her outerwear and put on her apron. She painfully took off her boots, a task she was all too accustomed to when... "Gran!" Lennie cried as he jumped into her lap. Ma Parker held her grandson close and teased him when he asked for a penny. She asked what he would give her in return for the money, and he replied, "I ain't got nothing" . The memory faded and Ma Parker began the arduous task of cleaning up the kitchen of the literary gentleman who did not believe in tidying up after himself. "You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing's done" . Despite the number of breadcrumbs and cigarette ends on the floor, Ma Parker felt sorry for the literary gentleman because he had no one to look after him. As she cleaned, Ma Parker thought back on her own hard. "I've had my share" of misfortune, she admitted. Even her neighbors said so but she wasn't one to complain. Lennie's death; however, was different compared to the other losses she had faced over the years. At sixteen she left the town of Stratford, England and went to London to work as a kitchen maid in the home of a well-to-do family. Their cook was cruel to her and kept her locked in the cellar when she wasn't working and threw her letters from home into the fire. On at least two occasions Ma Parker was sent to the hospital, presumably from the physical and/or emotional abuse she suffered at the hands of the cook. After that family sold their house and moved away, taking the cook with them, she Ma Parker worked for a doctor for a short time before she was married to her husband, a baker. The literary gentleman, whenever he showed an interest in her life, asked if she enjoyed being the wife of a baker, assuming her family had an array of delicious baked goods to enjoy at all times. Ma Parker replied that she was hardly ever in the shop with her husband as she was too busy taking care of their thirteen children, seven of whom died. "If it wasn't the 'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!" . The six children that remained were all very young when Ma Parker's husband died of consumption. The doctor said there was too much flour in his lungs and although Ma Parker could never be sure, she thought she saw white powder escape her dear husband's mouth as he lay dying. She raised her children on her own and kept "herself to herself" . Her husband's sister came to help her but fell down the stairs and was injured. For long five years Ma Parker took care of her sister-in-law and had had a difficult time of it. Then her daughter Maudie "went wrong and took her sister Alice with her" . Two of her boys left England and emigrated elsewhere. Jim, another son, joined the army and went to India. Ethel, her youngest daughter, married young and was widowed. She was the mother of Lennie, and lived with Ma Parker. Lennie had been ill from birth and was small of stature and unable to gain weight. Ethel would read advertisements from the newspaper that promised to help children like Lennie and Ma Parker dutifully bought each new remedy but to no avail. Lennie remained small, pale, and was often mistaken for a girl. He had light blonde hair and a freckle in the shape of a diamond on his nose. Ma Parker loved him with a fierce passion and called him "Gran's boy." She was so taken with this thought that she could almost hear Lennie calling to her. Instead she heard the steps of the literary gentleman who came brusquely into the kitchen. He reminded her to always inform him if she planned to throw anything away and asked if she had disposed of a teaspoon of cocoa that he had left in a tin last week. She said that she hadn't. The literary gentleman's tone was curt and he left the house pleased that he had shown the old woman who had the upper hand in their arrangement. Ma Parker said nothing and moved on to clean the bedroom. Tucking in the literary gentleman's bed sheets, Ma Parker's resolve began to crumble. She questioned why a child like Lennie had to suffer so. Why had he been burdened with such a hard life? It wasn't fair. Neither of them should have lived such difficult lives and now she would have to endure the loss of Lennie as well. No matter what she and Ethel did for Lennie he continued to decline, a lump formed in his lungs and every breath became a struggle. On his deathbed Lennie stared accusingly at his grandmother, as if he thought it was her fault that he was dying and she shrank away from her touch. The memory of Lennie's painful death was too much to bear for Ma Parker. She gathered her cleaning supplies and rushed out of the gentleman's house and into the street. She needed to cry but had nowhere to go. She could not return to the gentleman's house nor could she sit in the park for fear that one of her neighbors or a police officer would see her. She could not go home to cry because she knew that it would upset Ethel. Ma Parker had never cried in all of the long years of her life, during all of her troubles she had not felt the need to cry but now that Lennie was gone she could no longer hold back her tears. However, there was nowhere for her to go. Ma Parker had kept herself to herself for too long. Alone with her thoughts, it began to rain.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
7. MARRIAGE A LA MODE.

On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of
disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poor
little chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always were
as they ran to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and he had
nothing. He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that
was what he had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen
last time when they saw the same old boxes produced again.

And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine bee-fore!"

And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on mine. I hate pink."

But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled. In the
old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop
and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russian
toys, French toys, Serbian toys--toys from God knows where. It was over
a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on
because they were so "dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad
for the babies' sense of form."

"It's so important," the new Isabel had explained, "that they should
like the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time
later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years
staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to
be taken to the Royal Academy."

And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain
immediate death to any one...

"Well, I don't know," said William slowly. "When I was their age I used
to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it."

The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart.

"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She laughed in the new way.

Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing
in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies
handing the boxes round--they were awfully generous little chaps--while
Isabel's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves...

What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the
station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too?
Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends could
hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. All
the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one
of Isabel's young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the
nursery door.

With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The
platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut.
There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed
as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class
smoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of
papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to
read.

"Our client moreover is positive... We are inclined to reconsider... in
the event of--" Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened
hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dull
gnawing in his breast quietened down. "With regard to our decision--" He
took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly.

Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A
young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite.
The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and saw
the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by
the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the
way she waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully. Then a
greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the
passing train. And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back to
his papers.

When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for
shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children
splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky
shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel.

"We have examined our client's correspondence files... " The last
sentence he had read echoed in his mind. "We have examined... " William
hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the
middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said,
"Isabel." The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he
was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary
meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from
everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at
the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just
inside the hall.

And her clear, light voice said, "It's William," or "Hillo, William!" or
"So William has come!" He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek.

The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was
his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the
rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and
cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into
the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in
his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside,
and shut his eyes.

"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They were in their
bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the
dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes.

"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her fine light hair
fell over her cheeks.

"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a
stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him.

"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush:
"Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic. You're always
saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got to
know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen
on--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed back
her hair and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfully
absurd"--she bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this new
house and the servants you grudge me."

"Isabel!"

"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly. "You think they are
another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it," she said softly, "every
time you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have gone on living in
that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, there
wasn't enough room for the babies even."

No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to
find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having
rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were
playing shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on
the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel,
while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had
a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny.

Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with
blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at
the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don't you
think?"

But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he
hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what
blindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she really
hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny
was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new
people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that
studio party at Moira Morrison's--if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they
were leaving, "I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like
an exquisite little Titania"--if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to
Paris--if--if...

The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They'd
be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his
pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the
other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton
frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky
yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The
air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same
crowd with her this week-end, wondered William?

And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with
a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey
and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose
used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that
immense feather bed with their feet locked together... William couldn't
help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the full
extent of his sentimentality.

*****

"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after all, standing just as he
had imagined, apart from the others, and--William's heart leapt--she was
alone.

"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that
he had to say something, "You look very cool."

"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool. Come along, your horrid
old train is late. The taxi's outside." She put her hand lightly on his
arm as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all come to meet you,"
she said. "But we've left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called
for."

"Oh!" said William. It was all he could say for the moment.

There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green
sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the
other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and
down.

"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily.

And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only to be had from the
fishmonger's."

And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish in it."

"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how
they had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for
him. "Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea,
beginning with the butter."

"We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter," said Dennis. "May thy
head, William, lack not ointment."

"Look here," said William, "how are we going to sit? I'd better get up
by the driver."

"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said Isabel. "You're to sit between
Moira and me." The taxi started. "What have you got in those mysterious
parcels?"

"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat.

"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise William! A melon and a
pineapple. How too nice!"

"No, wait a bit," said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. "I
brought them down for the kiddies."

"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm.
"They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No"--she patted
his hand--"you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part
with my pineapple."

"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira. She flung her arms
across William appealingly. "Oh!" The strawberry bonnet fell forward:
she sounded quite faint.

"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple," said Dennis, as the taxi drew up
before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his arms
full of little packets.

"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the colours.
There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look
at this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just look at it! It's a perfect
little ballet."

But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh, I forgot. They're none of
them paid for," said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman
a note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo, William! I'm sitting by the
driver." And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to the
shoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti!" he cried...

After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made
his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the
rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had
not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall
carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long
room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted
a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed
daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long,
thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material,
covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked
there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down
in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the
sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had
lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark. One fished
up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems... He
thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and
tired to read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The
servants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly
there came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They had
remembered him. William got up and went through the French windows into
the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers
coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet.

"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles."

A tragic moan from Moira.

"We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played 'The Maid of
the Mountains.'"

"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's not fair to William. Be
nice to him, my children! He's only staying until to-morrow evening."

"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane. "I'm awfully good at looking after
people."

The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had
seen him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to
leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity you didn't come, William.
The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had
sloe gin."

The others had reached the house. "I say, Isabel," called Bobby, "would
you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?"

"No," said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress. We're all starving.
William's starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let's begin with
sardines."

"I've found the sardines," said Moira, and she ran into the hall,
holding a box high in the air.

"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said Dennis gravely.

"Well, William, and how's London?" asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out
of a bottle of whisky.

"Oh, London's not much changed," answered William.

"Good old London," said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine.

But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering
what colour one's legs really were under water.

"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour."

Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed
plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said,
"I do wish, Bill, you'd paint it."

"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread.

"Us," said Isabel, "round the table. It would be so fascinating in
twenty years' time."

Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's wrong," he said rudely,
"far too much yellow"; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm
Isabel, too.

But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn
until it was late enough to go to bed...

It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon
that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case
down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She
stooped down and picked up the suit-case. "What a weight!" she said, and
she gave a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate."

"No, why should you?" said William. "Of course, not. Give it to me."

"Oh, please, do let me," said Isabel. "I want to, really." They walked
together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now.

"There," said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she
looked anxiously along the sandy road. "I hardly seem to have seen you
this time," she said breathlessly. "It's so short, isn't it? I feel
you've only just come. Next time--" The taxi came into sight. "I hope
they look after you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies have
been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They'll hate missing
you. Poor William, going back to London." The taxi turned. "Good-bye!"
She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone.

Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty,
blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station.

The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung
back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded
his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to
write a letter to Isabel.

*****

The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs
under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel's
feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.

"Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly.

And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long Monday."

But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon they
had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for
lunch and now...

Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. "It's so wonderful.
One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious."

When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his
tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars.

Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters," he said complacently, and they
all waited. But, heartless postman--O malignant world! There was only
one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper.

"And mine's only from William," said Isabel mournfully.

"From William--already?"

"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder."

"Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for
servants."

"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter," said Dennis.

"My darling, precious Isabel." Pages and pages there were. As Isabel
read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What
on earth had induced William... ? How extraordinary it was... What
could have made him... ? She felt confused, more and more excited, even
frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course,
it must be absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to
do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop
laughing.

"Do, do tell us," said the others. "You must tell us."

"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter,
and waved it at them. "Gather round," she said. "Listen, it's too
marvellous. A love-letter!"

"A love-letter! But how divine!" "Darling, precious Isabel." But she had
hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her.

"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect."

"It's the most marvellous find."

"Oh, do go on, Isabel!"

"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness."

"Oh! oh! oh!"

"Sh! sh! sh!"

And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby
rolled on the turf and almost sobbed.

"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book," said
Dennis firmly. "I shall give it a whole chapter."

"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that wonderful bit about holding you in his
arms!"

"I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they
pale before this."

"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self," said Bobby Kane.

But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She
was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked
exhausted. "No, not just now. Not just now," she stammered.

And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the
hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of
the bed. "How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered Isabel. She
pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she
saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering,
stretching out their hands while she read them William's letter. Oh,
what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! "God
forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness." William!
Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even the
grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain...

Presently from the garden below there came voices.

"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!"

"Come, thou wife of William!"

"Call her once before you go, call once yet!"

Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go
with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be?
"I must make up my mind." Oh, but how could there be any question? Of
course she would stay here and write.

"Titania!" piped Moira.

"Isa-bel?"

No, it was too difficult. "I'll--I'll go with them, and write to William
later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write,"
thought Isabel hurriedly.

And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: William was on his way to the train station when he remembered he hadn't bought anything for his two sons. He always arrived home every weekend with a small gift for his boys, usually candy but he had given them sweets during the last four visits and wanted to give Paddy and Johnny a new treat. Toys were out. Williams' wife, Isabel, was very particular about what kinds of toys the children played with fearing the wrong toy would influence their behavior later in life. Instead, William settled on fruit, a melon and a pineapple but immediately regretted his choice. He had a horrible suspicion that Isabel's friends would eat the children's fruit just as they usually ate the candy he brought home from London. Boarding the train, William made his way to a first-class carriage and began to read from a wad of legal papers from his pocket to dull his growing dread of arriving home to Isabel. His wife had changed in recent years and William did not like who his wife had become, dubbing her "the new Isabel." Yet he began to fantasize about seeing her at the station platform where she usually met him on his return home every Saturday. He delighted in envisioning her beauty and the many ways in which she would greet him, her attention solely his. Comparing her to his favorite rosebush as a child, beautiful and soft, William's vision of his wife was soon overtaken by the dread he felt concerning "the new Isabel" and her artistic friends who were living in his home with his wife and children, rent-free. Remembering a conversation they had had in their bedroom Isabel had chided him saying "Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and -tragic. You're always saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen on- on everything, you behave as though I'd...killed our love or something. It's so awfully absurd" . William had not know how to reply without being insulting and he agreed that a change had been necessary when he chose to relocate his family to the countryside, away from crowded London. The little home they had shared in London was too small, especially for the boys, and although Isabel complained about the servants in the new home, it was larger and she was able to endlessly entertain her friends who utilized the large property at their leisure. William had loved the little home in London, had taken pride in it. He had no idea Isabel had been unhappy there until Moira Morrison, a friend, had taken Isabel under her wing, calling her "little Titania" and had taken Isabel to Paris. William reflects that the trip to France had been the catalyst of Isabel's transformation. Only one station away, William prepared to disembark all the while remembering the many holidays or vacations they had when the boys were babies and how Isabel would wear her hair in a braid and they slept with their feet intertwined. William knew Isabel would scorn his sentimentality but he smiled at the memory nonetheless. At the station, Isabel was waiting for him, set apart from the rest of the crowd. She called out to him, just as he had imagined she would and tucked her arm into his and walked with him to a waiting taxi. William thought she looked beautiful and told her so but she brushed off his compliment and said her friends were waiting for them in the taxi. William tried not to show his disappointment. Moira Morrison, Bill Hunt, and Dennis Green were sprawled out in the taxi waiting for Bobby Kane to return from the sweet shop with ice cream and candy. William was agitated when Isabel took the pineapple from him, drawing attention to his gift to the children. Moira made a show of smelling the pineapple while Bill and Dennis exchanged witty comments about women and fruit. Bobby Kane soon emerged from the sweet shop, his arms loaded down with ice cream packets and nougat. The shopkeeper appeared and Bobby Kane said he had forgotten to pay. Isabel casually gave the shopkeeper money and then got into the taxi. Once home, Isabel and her friends went to bathe in a pond near the house while William went to spend time with his sons who were unfortunately sleeping and missed their father's Saturday visit altogether. William went down to the sitting room and was agitated to see Isabel's new friends had replaced his son's toys with poetry and an odd painting. Disgusted with his circumstances, William listened to his houseguests' conversation as they made their way into the house after their swim. Each viewed William as an intruder upon their time, and felt that they could not behave in the way that they wanted to with him around. Isabel shushed them and said her husband would only be there for one day and they would just have to be nice to him. Coming into the house they realized that William had probably heard what they said and Bobby Kane tried to rectify this by comically dancing on the lawn with his towel and telling William they were late because they had all gone out to a pub. Isabel led her friends inside and they sat with William to eat supper and began the first course of sardines. Bill Hunt tried to engage William in conversation but was distracted by Moira's discussion of the color of legs underwater. William kept track of the enormous amount of food and drink Isabel's friends consumed and of her cheerful demeanor at providing them sustenance. The next day William was waiting for his taxi to take him to the train station and then back to London, when Isabel came out to say goodbye. She lifted his suitcase, intending to carry it down the lane to the taxi. It was much heavier than usual. As the taxi approached them Isabel apologized for not spending more time with him during his visit and that he had missed seeing the boys. She wished him well, kissed his cheek, and returned to the house. After William had boarded his train and had taken his seat in first-class, he began to compose a letter to Isabel in his mind. *** Isabel and her friends were lounging on the lawn when the post arrived. As her friends talked amongst themselves, Isabel's thoughts were on the salmon they had eaten for dinner the night before. She could not understand where all of the salmon had gone, thinking they should have had leftovers for today. The post contained one letter, from William to Isabel. She was not pleased to see the letter and did not react when one of her friends said William was sending her a gentle reminder of her wedding vows. The letter began "My darling, precious Isabel" . It was a love letter! Isabel began to laugh, forcibly at first because she was confused by the letter's meaning and embarrassed by it's implications. Turning it into a joke, she read the long letter aloud to the utter delight of her friends who joyfully ridiculed William for his sentimentality and casually talked of divorce. The line "God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness" lingered in the air and Isabel, to the surprise of her friends, took the letter and ran into the house. In her bedroom, Isabel cried in anger at herself for having read aloud William's letter. She saw the faces of her so-called friends laughing and ridiculing her dear husband and saw how vain and shallow she had become. She knew she should write back to William immediately, to reassure him of her own affections for him but her friends were calling to her, asking her to go swimming with them. Isabel knew she had a decision to make and wanted to stay and write to William but her friends called up to her "Titania!" She thought she would write to William some other time and left the bedroom laughing the laugh of "the new Isabel."