They landed.
When they had arrived home, and he saw her again among her children, he realised that his affection for her had undergone a change, and that her affection for him had been transferred to and divided amongst all these little screamers. Perhaps her love for him had only been a means to an end. His part had been a short one, and he felt deposed. If he had not been required to earn bread and butter, he would probably have been cast off long ago.
He went into his study, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, lighted his pipe and felt at home.
Outside the wind lashed the rain against the window panes, and whistled in the chimney.
When the children had been put to bed, his wife came and sat by him.
“No weather to gather wild strawberries,” she said.
“No, my dear, the summer is over and autumn is here.”
“Yes, it is autumn,” she replied, “but it is not yet winter, there is comfort in that.”
“Very poor comfort if we consider that we live but once.”
“Twice when one has children; three times if one lives to see one’s grandchildren.”