A SON AT THE FRONT
a little pig asleep under a cork-tree, who lay on his side like a dog.
The vision filled the carriage-window and then vanished; but it remained so sharply impressed on Campton that even then he knew what was going to happen. He leaned back with a sense of relief, and forgot everything else.
The next morning he said to his wife: "There's a little place up the line that I want to go back and paint. You don't mind staying here a day or two, do you?"
She said she did not mind; it was what she always said; but he was somehow aware that this was the particular grievance she had always been waiting for. He did not care for that, or for anything but getting a seat in the diligence which started every morning for the village nearest the white house. On the way he remembered that he had left Julia only forty pesetas, but he did not care about that either. . . He stayed a month, and when he returned to Ronda his wife had gone back to Paris, leaving a letter to say that the matter was in the hands of her lawyers.
"What did you do it for—I mean in that particular way? For goodness knows I understand all the rest," Adele Anthony had once asked him, while the divorce proceedings were going on; and he had shaken his head, conscious that he could not explain.
It was a year or two later that he met the first person who did understand: a Russian lady who had heard
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