It was Whitsuntide. In the afternoon the husband was lying on the
ragged leather sofa, gazing at a window on the other side of the
street. He was watching a woman of evil reputation who was dressing
for her evening stroll. A spray of lilac and two oranges were lying by
the side of her looking-glass.
She was fastening her dress without taking the least notice of his
inquisitive glances.
"She's not having a bad time," mused the celibate, suddenly kindled
into passion. "One lives but once in this world, and one must live
one's life, happen what will!"
His wife entered the room and caught sight of the object of his
scrutiny. Her eyes blazed; the last feeble sparks of her dead love
glowed under the ashes and revealed themselves in a temporary flash
of jealousy.
"Hadn't we better take the children to the Zoo?" she asked.
"To make a public show of our misery? No, thank you!"
"But it's so hot in here. I shall have to pull down the blinds."
"You had better open a window!"
He divined his wife's thoughts and rose to do it himself. Out there,
on the edge of the pavement, his four little ones were sitting, in
close proximity of the waste pipes. Their feet were in the dry gutter,
and they were playing with orange peels which they had found in the
sweepings of the road.
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