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He thought he had never quite got over his illness before he went to Colwyn Bay and now it was this trouble which had done for him. He had told Mr. Edward he would go to Canada but he knew he never should. They wouldn't want a man so broken up. He could never begin any new work his life was all in this place. So then " The tears began quietly to overflow the large blue eyes looking into Marcia's.
But Marcia's heart leaped at the recognition of her presence, for she had begun to fear that she was dead, and that it was her spirit that was wandering about. She stooped and kissed her mother, who murmured abstractedly, "Yes, dear," never once looking up from the presents she was examining.
She was a small woman, barely as high as Marcia's shoulder; a surprise always, when noted, for the carriage of her head and shoulders gave the impression of her being above medium height; she had evidently been an extremely pretty creature of the Dresden-china type, and she still bore the manner and assurance of beauty, fortifying this mental attitude by a genius for dress.
Epstein's meat market throws in free suet. The lamp with the opal-silk shade for Marcia's piano. White oilcloth is cleaner than shelf paper. Dotted Swiss curtains, the ones in Marcia's room looped back with pink bows. Old sashes, pressed out and fringed at the edges.
Rummaging through the attic he finds an old secretary of Aunt Marcia's, and unearths other treasures that quite stir his sister's envy. "For those old things are all coming back," she says in a tone of poignant regret, whether at this fact or at the realization of the loss of them he is not quite certain. The house is quiet and delightful.
After the dentist had mended the brace Joan would have to be brought home for her lunch. Peter would be there, too. It was Easter vacation time. Hannah probably would lunch with them, in Marcia's absence, nagging them a little about their spinach and chop and apple sauce. She hated to see the two children at table alone, though Marcia said that was nonsense.
The editor did not hear him, or did not think it necessary to respond from behind the newspaper which he had lifted up between them, and Bartley went out. He did not stop to cash his order; he made boyish haste to show it to Marcia, as something more authentic than the money itself, and more sacred. As he hurried homeward he figured Marcia's ecstasy in his thought.
But she really made no effort to escape. The house seemed too little for Marcia's happiness, and after dinner she did not let Bartley forget his last night's engagement. She sent him off to get his horse at the hotel, and ran up to her room to put on her wraps for the drive.
When he was near enough I could see his grave, handsome, mediocre face far back in the carriage, and beside it Marcia's; small, delicate, shell-pink, her intense blue eyes bright even in that blurred gloomy daylight, shining close together over her little aquiline nose.
She might dismiss Marcia's tirade as other members of the family are wont to do, but there comes an awesome, shivering fear that it is true in some degree. How many times she has seen Gertrude check Marcia when Floyd was under discussion.
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