” The stranger came over to them smiling. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. He never seemed to take full advantage while they were in his mammoth automobile. After all, she found herself reflecting, behind her aunt’s complacent visage there was a past as lurid as any one’s—not, of course, her aunt’s own personal past, which was apparently just that curate and almost incredibly jejune, but an ancestral past with all sorts of scandalous things in it: fire and slaughterings, exogamy, marriage by capture, corroborees, cannibalism! Ancestresses with perhaps dim anticipatory likenesses to her aunt, their hair less neatly done, no doubt, their manners and gestures as yet undisciplined, but still ancestresses in the direct line, must have danced through a brief and stirring life in the woady buff. Wood the best of wives. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. ’ Gerald laughed and clapped him on the back. Somehow logic could not explain her. Ruth loved him. Their poor hands!” “I know,” said Mr. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned.
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