within the very marrow of his bones. There was only one thing he wanted to do. It was a fierce desire that had been born as he lay beneath the acacia-tree watching the procession of singing women.
When Uncle Elmer and Aunt Mabelle, walking very carefully on account of Aunt Mabelle's "condition," had gone down the path into the flying snow, Emma said, "We'll all go to bed now. You're to have the spare-room, Philip, Naomi will sleep with me."
"No, I can't sleep yet. I'm going to sit up a while."
"Then put out the gas when you come to bed. It gets low toward morning and sometimes goes out by itself."
Naomi went off without a word, still enveloped in the aura of silent and insinuating injury, and Philip flung himself down on the floor before the gas-log, as he had always done as a boy, lying on his stomach, with the friendly smell of dust and carpet in his nostrils, while he pored over a book. Only to-night he didn't read: he simply lay on his back staring at the ceiling or at the enlarged photograph of his father, wondering what sort of man he had been and whether, if he were alive now, he would have helped his son or ranged himself with the others. There was a look in the eye which must have baffled a man like Uncle Elmer.
Upstairs, directly overhead, Naomi and Emma prepared for bed in silence. Only once did either of them speak. It happened when Emma burst out with admiration as Naomi let down the heavy mass of dull reddish hair. They both undressed prudishly, slipping
