it was impossible for her to live where the confusion of twentieth century civilization broke in upon her meditations. She would always arrange it so that they could talk without intrusion.
As they reached the garden Winnery saw that the work had been done. The statue was buried again and atop the grave-like mound of reddish earth Pietro had left the olive branch and the two melons as a propitiatory offering. The goats had disappeared.
Wildly he said, "I have not seen Miss Fosdick? I was hoping to say good-day to her."
"She is not here," said Mrs. Weatherby.
There was a pause in which Mr. Winnery found himself at a loss for conversation. At last he said, "I did not know she was going away?" (Why should I know?)
"Yes. She has gone on a holiday, the first, I must say, that she has had in twenty years. I urged her to do it. I felt that she had had quite enough of me. Dear Gertrude is always so devoted. She never wants to leave me for a moment."
This cast Mr. Winnery down. "She must indeed be devoted," he murmured. And then suddenly—"Good-by, Mrs. Weatherby, and thank you for the tea."
At the mouth of the tunnel he turned suddenly, seized by what he felt must be the beginning of madness. If Mrs. Weatherby happened to be looking at his aura she must suddenly see that it had turned flaming red. "When do you think she will return?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Mrs. Weatherby. "That
