SUNDAY EVENING
"Archie is feeling holy," said Mrs. McKenna, looking across at the sofa not without respect. "I wonder what it feels like. At present his mind is in the past. When this present is the past it will linger longest in this particular part of the past (how difficult that was to say). Seven or eight Sundays hence, Archie, when you are in Africa, very lonely and primæval, leaning on your gun, you will think back to one Sunday evening in the country, in Gilda's drawing-room, and you'll try and hum the chimes (unconsciously you're learning them now). You'll shut your eyes and see the big windows and the beeches, and Laura and me, and think what sweet women we were."
"Oh, shall I?" said Archie in a discouraging tone.
Fanny McKenna was coming a little too near the mark; she was a discordant personal together, and would have been better away. He was very happy with his head in the dark, listening to Gilda and watching Laura listen—he had been curiously attracted lately by the movements of her big head and big, rather incapable-looking white hands.
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