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The Garden-party

Katherine Mansfield

AND after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfectday for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky withouta cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimesin early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns andsweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisyplants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feelingthey understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people atgarden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing.Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the greenbushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything toyou children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me as an honouredguest."

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the � men. She had washed herhair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green turban, witha dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly, always came down ina silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."

Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It's sodelicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she lovedhaving to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much better thananybody else.

Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path.They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bagsslung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she was notholding that piece of bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, andshe couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe andeven a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.

"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded sofearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl,"Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?"

"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow,and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled down at her."That's about it." �

His smile was so easy, so friendly, that Laura recovered. What nice eyes hehad, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they weresmiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed to say. How verynice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't mention themorning; she must be business-like. The marquee.

"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?"

And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold thebread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chapthrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned.

"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a thinglike a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want to put itsomewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow me."

Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quiterespectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she didquite follow him.

"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to bein one corner."

"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He waspale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. What washe thinking?

"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. � Perhaps he wouldn't mind somuch if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted.

"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. That'lldo fine."

Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were solovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow fruit.They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, proud, solitary,lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of silent splendour. Mustthey be hidden by a marquee?

They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making forthe place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig oflavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the smell.When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her wonder athim caring for things like that—caring for the smell of lavender. Howmany men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how extraordinarilynice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen for her friendsrather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper?She would get on much better with men like these.

It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on theback of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, ofthese absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, � she didn't feel them.Not a bit, not an atom. . . . And now there came the chock-chock of woodenhammers. Someone whistled, someone sang out, "Are you right there, matey?""Matey!" The friendliness of it, the—the—Just to prove how happyshe was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how shedespised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and-butter asshe stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work-girl.

"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from thehouse.

"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, acrossthe veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie werebrushing their hats ready to go to the office.

"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at mycoat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing."

"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurieand gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" gaspedLaura.

"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister too,and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl."

The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to lunch?Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch meal—justthe sandwich crusts and broken mer- � ingue-shells and what's left over. Yes,isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly should. Onemoment—hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat back. "What,mother? Can't hear."

Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that sweethat she had on last Sunday."

"Mother says you're to wear thatsweet hat you had on last Sunday.Good. One o'clock. Bye-bye."

Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deepbreath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment afterthe sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the doors in thehouse seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick steps and runningvoices. The green baize door that led to the kitchen regions swung open andshut with a muffled thud. And now there came a long, chuckling absurd sound. Itwas the heavy piano being moved on its stiff castors. But the air! If youstopped to notice, was the air always like this? Little faint winds wereplaying chase in at the tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there weretwo tiny spots of sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame,playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It wasquite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. �

The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's printskirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, "I'msure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan."

"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall.

"It's the florist, Miss Laura."

It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray fullof pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna lilies,big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on brightcrimson stems.

"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. Shecrouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they werein her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast.

"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie,go and find mother."

But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.

"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't theylovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and I sawthem in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I shall haveenough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse."

"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie hadgone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her arm � roundher mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear.

"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't dothat. Here's the man."

He carried more lilies still, another whole tray.

"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please,"said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?"

"Oh, Ido, mother."

In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded inmoving the piano.

"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything outof the room except the chairs, don't you think?"

"Quite."

"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to takethese marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—" Jose loved givingorders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them feelthey were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to come hereat once.

"Very good, Miss Jose."

She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in caseI'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is Weary.'"

Pom! Ta-ta-taTee -ta! The piano burst out so passionatelythat Jose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully andenigmat- � ically at her mother and Laura as they came in.

This Life isWee -ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love thatChan -ges,
��This Life isWee -ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love thatChan -ges,
And then . . . Good-bye!

"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed.

This Life isWee -ary,
Hope comes to Die.
A Dream—aWa -kening.

But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?"

"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for thesandwiches?"

"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. Andthe children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me see." And shesaid to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes.

Sadie went.

"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the smoking-room.I've got the � names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You'll have to writethem out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet thing off yourhead. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you hear me, children, orshall I have to tell your father when he comes home tonight? And—and,Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of herthis morning."

The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how ithad got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.

"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remembervividly—cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?"

"Yes."

"Egg and—" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It lookslike mice. It can't be mice, can it?"

"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder.

"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg andolive."

They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. Shefound Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying.

"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous voice."How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?"

"Fifteen, Miss Jose."

"Well, cook, I congratulate you." �

Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife and smiled broadly.

"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She hadseen the man pass the window.

That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their creampuffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.

"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook.

Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Josewere far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, theycouldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook beganarranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.

"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura.

"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carriedback. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say."

"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma won'tknow."

Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very ideamade one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were lickingtheir fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from whippedcream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I want tosee how the men are � getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully nicemen."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clappedto her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was screwed up in theeffort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it washis story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under hisnose.

"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of course,she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, acarter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street thismorning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They weretaking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook, "He's left awife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged herthrough the kitchen � to the other side of the green baize door. There shepaused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however are wegoing to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do youmean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don'tbe so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to.Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside thefront gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane tothemselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broadroad ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possibleeyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They werelittle mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches therewas nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smokecoming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds ofsmoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans'chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a manwhose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Childrenswarmed. � When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot therebecause of the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since theywere grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. Itwas disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must goeverywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.

"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," saidLaura.

"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop aband playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuouslife. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic." Hereyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they werelittle and fighting together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to lifeby being sentimental," she said softly.

"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She saidjust as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going straight up to tellmother."

"Do, dear," cooed Jose.

"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glassdoor-knob.

"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a colour?"And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a newhat. �

"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.

"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.

"No, no!"

"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and tookoff the big hat and held it on her knees.

"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told thedreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. "Theband and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearlyneighbours!"

To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder tobear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.

"But, dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heardof it. If someone had died there normally—and I can't understand how theykeep alive in those poky little holes-we should still be having our party,shouldn't we?"

Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat downon her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.

"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.

"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat.Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her mother,"the hat is yours. It's made for you. � It's much too young for me. I havenever seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up herhand-mirror.

"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turnedaside.

This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.

"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that don'texpect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody'senjoyment as you're doing now."

"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the roominto her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was thischarming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and along black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Ismother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I beingextravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had anotherglimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body beingcarried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture inthe newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. Andsomehow that seemed quite the best plan. . . .

Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready forthe fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a corner ofthe tennis-court. �

"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for words?You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the middleon a leaf."

Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of himLaura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreedwith the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him intothe hall.

"Laurie!"

"Hallo!" he was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura hesuddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura!You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely topping hat!"

Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell himafter all.

Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; thehired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there werecouples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over the lawn.They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans' garden for thisone afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, what happiness it is to be withpeople who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.

"Darling Laura, how well you look!"

"What a becoming hat, child!" �

"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking."

And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have anice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to her fatherand begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something to drink?"

And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petalsclosed.

"Never a more delightful garden-party . . . " "The greatest success . . . ""Quite the most . . . "

Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in theporch till it was all over.

"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up theothers, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it'sbeen very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will youchildren insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat down in thedeserted marquee.

"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."

"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He tookanother. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened today?"he said.

"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her � hand, "we did. It nearlyruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off."

"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it.

"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap wasmarried too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozenkiddies, so they say."

An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really,it was very tactless of father. . . .

Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes,puffs, all un-eaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliantideas.

"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creaturesome of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treatfor the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling inand so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!" She jumped up."Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard."

"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.

Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scrapsfrom their party. Would the poor woman really like that?

"Of course! What's the matter with you to- � day? An hour or two ago youwere insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—"

Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by hermother.

"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, wait,take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arumlilies."

"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.

So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"—hermother followed her out of the marquee—"don't on any account—"

"What mother?"

No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Runalong."

It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran bylike a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the littlecottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here shewas going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn'trealize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her thatkisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass weresomehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She lookedup at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successfulparty."

Now the broad road was crossed. The lane be- � gan, smoky and dark. Women inshawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the childrenplayed in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In someof them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across thewindow. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on acoat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer—ifonly it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was amistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go backeven now?

No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stoodoutside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair,watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drewnear. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they hadknown she was coming here.

Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, shesaid to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the woman,smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."

Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walkedup the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or be coveredup in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave the basketand go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied. �

Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.

Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered,"Walk in, please, miss," and she was shut in the passage.

"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave thisbasket. Mother sent—"

The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Stepthis way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her.

She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp.There was a woman sitting before the fire.

"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young lady."She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse'er, won't you?"

"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her.I—I only want to leave—"

But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up,red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as thoughshe couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was thisstranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And thepoor face puckered up again.

"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."

And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, � I'm sure," and her face,swollen too, tried an oily smile.

Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. Thedoor opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom where the dead manwas lying.

"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she brushedpast Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"—and now her voicesounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet—" 'e looks apicture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."

Laura came.

There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so soundly, so deeply,that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He wasdreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyeswere closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to hisdream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? Hewas far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they werelaughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane.Happy . . . happy . . . All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just asit should be. I am content.

But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room withoutsaying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. �

"Forgive my hat," she said.

And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of thedoor, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane shemet Laurie.

He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"

"Yes."

"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"

"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him.

"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.

Laura shook her head. She was.

Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm,loving voice. "Was it awful?"

"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie—" Shestopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn'tlife—" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quiteunderstood.

"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.

THE END

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