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You should come with us； eh？ What do you say； Anna？ Don't you
think this young man ought to come with us？〃
She got up； and stood staring at them both。 Had she heard aright？
Then she answeredvery gravely：
〃Yes； I think he ought。〃
〃Good； we'll get HIM to lead up the Cimone della Pala！〃
III
When the boy had said good…bye； and she had watched him out into
the street； Anna stood for a moment in the streak of sunlight that
came in through the open door； her hands pressed to cheeks which
were flaming。 Then she shut the door and leaned her forehead
against the window…pane； seeing nothing。 Her heart beat very fast；
she was going over and over again the scene just passed through。
This meant so much more than it had seemed to mean。 。 。 。
Though she always had Heimweh； and especially at the end of the
summer term； this year it had been a different feeling altogether
that made her say to her husband： 〃I want to go to the mountains！〃
For twelve years she had longed for the mountains every summer； but
had not pleaded for them； this year she had pleaded； but she did
not long for them。 It was because she had suddenly realized the
strange fact that she did not want to leave England； and the reason
for it； that she had come and begged to go。 Yet why； when it was
just to get away from thought of this boy； had she said： 〃Yes； I
think he ought to come！〃 Ah！ but life for her was always a strange
pull between the conscientious and the desperate； a queer； vivid；
aching business！ How long was it now since that day when he first
came to lunch； silent and shy； and suddenly smiling as if he were
all lighted up withinthe day when she had said to her husband
afterwards： 〃Ah； he's an angel！〃 Not yet a yearthe beginning of
last October term； in fact。 He was different from all the other
boys； not that he was a prodigy with untidy hair； ill…fitting
clothes； and a clever tongue； but because of somethingsomething
Ah！ welldifferent； because he washe； because she longed to take
his head between her hands and kiss it。 She remembered so well the
day that longing first came to her。 She was giving him tea； it was
quite early in the Easter term； he was stroking her cat； who always
went to him； and telling her that he meant to be a sculptor； but
that his guardian objected； so that； of course； he could not start
till he was of age。 The lamp on the table had a rose…coloured
shade； he had been rowinga very cold dayand his face was
glowing； generally it was rather pale。 And suddenly he smiled； and
said： 〃It's rotten waiting for things； isn't it？〃 It was then she
had almost stretched out her hands to draw his forehead to her
lips。 She had thought then that she wanted to kiss him； because it
would have been so nice to be his mothershe might just have been
his mother； if she had married at sixteen。 But she had long known
now that she wanted to kiss； not his forehead； but his lips。 He
was there in her lifea fire in a cold and unaired house； it had
even become hard to understand that she could have gone on all
these years without him。 She had missed him so those six weeks of
the Easter vacation； she had revelled so in his three queer little
letters； half…shy； half…confidential； kissed them； and worn them in
her dress！ And in return had written him long； perfectly correct
epistles in her still rather quaint English。 She had never let him
guess her feelings； the idea that he might shocked her
inexpressibly。 When the summer term began； life seemed to be all
made up of thoughts of him。 If； ten years ago； her baby had lived；
if its cruel deathafter her agonyhad not killed for good her
wish to have another； if for years now she had not been living with
the knowledge that she had no warmth to expect； and that love was
all over for her； if life in the most beautiful of all old cities
had been able to grip herthere would have been forces to check
this feeling。 But there was nothing in the world to divert the
current。 And she was so brimful of life； so conscious of vitality
running to sheer waste。 Sometimes it had been terrific； that
feeling within her； of wanting to liveto find outlet for her
energy。 So many hundreds of lonely walks she had taken during all
these years； trying to lose herself in Naturehurrying alone；
running in the woods； over the fields； where people did not come；
trying to get rid of that sense of waste； trying once more to feel
as she had felt when a girl； with the whole world before her。 It
was not for nothing that her figure was superb； her hair so bright
a brown； her eyes so full of light。 She had tried many
distractions。 Work in the back streets； music； acting； hunting；
given them up one after the other； taken to them passionately
again。 They had served in the past。 But this year they had not
served。 。 。 。 One Sunday； coming from confession unconfessed； she
had faced herself。 It was wicked。 She would have to kill this
feelingmust fly from this boy who moved her so！ If she did not
act quickly； she would be swept away。 And then the thought had
come： Why not？ Life was to be livednot torpidly dozed through in
this queer cultured place； where age was in the blood！ Life was
for loveto be enjoyed！ And she would be thirty…six next month！
It seemed to her already an enormous age。 Thirty…six！ Soon she
would be old； actually oldand never have known passion！ The
worship； which had made a hero of the distinguished…looking
Englishman； twelve years older than herself； who could lead up the
Cimone della Pala； had not been passion。 It might； perhaps； have
become passion if he had so willed。 But he was all form； ice；
books。 Had he a heart at all； had he blood in his veins？ Was
there any joy of life in this too beautiful city and these people
who lived in itthis place where even enthusiasms seemed to be
formal and have no wings； where everything was settled and
sophisticated as the very chapels and cloisters？ And yet； to have
this feeling for a boyfor one almost young enough to be her son！
It was soshameless！ That thought haunted her； made her flush in
the dark； lying awake at night。 And desperately she would pray
for she was devoutpray to be made pure； to be given the holy
feelings of a mother； to be filled simply with the sweet sense that
she could do everything； suffer anything for him； for his good。
After these long prayers she would feel calmed； drowsy； as though
she had taken a drug。 For hours； perhaps； she would stay like
that。 And then it would all come over her again。 She never
thought of his loving her； that would beunnatural。 Why should he
love her？ She was very humble about it。 Ever since that Sunday；
when she avoided the confessional； she had brooded over how to make
an endhow to get away from a longing that was too strong for her。
And she had hit on this planto beg for the mountains； to go back
to where her husband had come into her life； and try if this
feeling would not die。 If it did not； she would ask to be left out
there with her own people； away from this danger。 And now the
foolthe blind foolthe superior foolwith his satiric smile；
his everlasting patronage； had driven her to ove