of his experiment. And now all fell to dust. Rosemary was not only well, she was about to go forth and earn. She needed nothing he could give her, but much that he could not. So now he would let her go ... he agreed in his heart . . . the sooner the better.
Imagination had painted his future before him. He could see himself and his sister Ethel, mutually helpful and devoted, in some smallish apartment near the college, at work by day until they faltered, and every evening
ithel knitting, the radio on. He said to himself that he :ould make-do. He had done with much less than a demoted sister at his side. He really did not know why he should feel so disheartened, so desperately unhappy about
'It all ought to work out very nicely,' said Ethel, 'although I do dread the bus ride. To be at the mercy of those buses, thirty minutes each way. A waste, really. Mightn't it be wise to move a little nearer in to town?'
Rosemary's hands and head jerked. 'Move?' she murmured.
'After all,' said Ethel, 'this is pleasant of course, but when you are working, Rosemary, you won't have the daylight hours . . . Did you prick your finger, dear?'
Rosemary said quietly, 'No, Ethel. I did not.'
'Ah . . . well.' Ethel smiled indulgently. 'We ought to think of Ken, too. Will it be wise for him to ride the buses in the fall—with that leg?'
'I hadn't thought . . .' said Rosemary in a rush, and her face came up.
'I should think I could ride on a bus,' said Mr. Gibson, 'without . . .' His voice caught, because he could see very plainly the red smear of Rosemary's blood on the white of the collar in her hands.
'You did run that needle into your finger, dear,' said Ethel chidingly. '.'Just look at the stain. On your business clothes, too . . .'
'It will wash,' said Rosemary faintly, and rose; and, walking stiffly, she bore her work toward the kitchen.
Mr. Gibson wondered what it meant. 'I suppose,' he said, staring at the cold grate and feeling frozen, 'she pricked her finger and stained the collar because she doesn't want to go to business tomorrow.'
He waited timidly for Ethel to agree.
But Ethel smiled. 'I don't think so,' she said, 'for why should she tell a lie about that?' (Mr. Gibson faced it. Rosemary had lied.) 'It happened, of course,' said Ethel lowering her voice, 'when I spoke of leaving here'
'Leaving—?'
'Leaving him, I imagine,' said Ethel, sotto. 'How she gives herself away!'
He heard her sigh, but inside himself he was collapsing and shrinking with distaste. Given that nothing is what it seems; even so, he couldn't guess what it really was. In
the old poems, man was captain of his soul, and he, so steeped in them, would never learn. How could he learn? He was old. His heart sank. Mr. Gibson felt solid, felt treason, too—he couldn't help it—and he hated it. He turned his eyes back into the book and did not look up as Rosemary returned.
'Did you use cold water?' Ethel fussed.
'Of course,' said Rosemary softly. 'It's nothing.' She was taking up her needle, as Mr. Gibson could see through his temple somehow out of the side of his averted face. Did Rosemary know why she had run a needle into her flesh? It made him sad to think, Not necessarily.
'Now, Ken, you will be all right tomorrow?' his sister asked fussily. 'Mrs. Violette will be in to finish up your shirts, you know, and she could stay and fix your lunch.'
'No, no,' he said. He didn't want Mrs. Violette. He looked forward to being alone.
'You do feel all right?' said Rosemary timidly anxious. 'Nothing's bothering you, Kenneth, is it? You don't look as well as you did, somehow. Do you think so, Ethel?'
'I wonder if I'm not missing my work,' he said resettling his shoulders. 'I'm used to working . . .'
Rosemary's head bent over her sewing. He wrenched his gaze from her hair.
'You mustn't give me a thought,' he said. 'In the first place, I have lived alone a matter of nearly half a century, in my day . . . and secondly, the Townsends are right next door, and Paul is around.' He despised himself for throwing out Paul's name.
'That's so,' said Ethel. 'Their new cleaning woman won't be in 'til Friday, and of course Mrs. Violette will be gone. Paul, unless he can shift the load onto Jeanie, is going to be stuck right here with old Mrs. Pyne.' She seemed to take a faint malicious satisfaction from this.
'Paul is very good to the old lady,' said Mr. Gibson (for jealousy he would not descend to, generous and just he would be). 'I think it's extraordinary.'
Rosemary looked up with a flashing smile. 'I think so too,' she said warmly.
Mr. Gibson turned a page, which was ridiculous. He had not even seemed to read it.
'I've wondered,' said Ethel with that shrewd little frown of hers. 'Are you sure that this property isn't Mrs. Pyne' s property? I suppose Paul is her heir.'
Rosemary said, smiling, 'Sometimes you sound terribly cynical, Ethel.'
'Not at all. I am only a realist,' said Ethel smugly. 'At least I like to think I can face a fact.'
'But can't a man be simply good and kind?' Rosemary inquired. 'Really?'-'
Mr. Gibson's heart seemed to swoon. 'And also good-looking?' said Ethel with a grin. 'I suppose it's possible. Perhaps he is as good as he is beautiful.' She cocked her head and counted stitches.
'But Paul has a prosperous business, hasn't he, Kenneth?' insisted Rosemary. 'He makes money.'
