A dreamy sense of content crept over him. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. His eyes never left her face. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. ’ ‘But where? Where has he gone? Always he goes off, and he says no word to anyone. “Quite unusually cold for the time of year,” he said. You make a game with me, imbecile. Three a week is my allowance, and, if I get short ones, four. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “What did you say?” “Well, I considered myself justified in denying it,” Anna answered drily. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness.
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