Her skin was still very fair, her hair darker, with golden lights, her brows much darker, the same blue eyes, white lidded. Strange he had never noticed before that the clothes she wore were like her—this grave little frock she was wearing now, white, sheer, like a veil, long pretty sleeves, a kind little waist with darts in it to fit her figure. Who but Helen would ever think of taking up darts in her bodice this year when every other woman was fluffing herself? He smiled at this, but the humor of his face was neither intimate nor affectionate. It was a sort of grinning footnote to Helen’s character.
He began presently to feel the old irritation at her silence. He halted, dropped down on the bench beside her, but at the other end, hung himself by one elbow over the back of it, crossed his legs and addressed her with a question which he frequently used like a key to turn in the lock of his wife’s silence.
“Helen, if you were about to say anything, what would you say?” he asked.
“I was just thinking,” she answered, implying that she preferred not to publish these thoughts in speech.
But he wanted to know. His manner was that of a husband who wanted to start something.
“If we had children,” she began, looking at him, then away from him, “I was wondering what they would be doing now.”
His eyes widened over her, but she did not feel this amazement. Her own gaze appeared to be trailing these children among the flowers in this garden.
“I often think of them,” she went on. “Our son—I always expected the first one to be a son—he should be quite a lad now. What do boys of fourteen do at this hour of the day?” regarding him with a sort of dreaming seriousness.
He made no reply. He had slumped; with lowered lids he was staring at the graveled walk in front of this bench.
“But the two little girls, much younger, would be here in the garden with us. Isn’t it strange, I always know what they would be doing, but not the boy. I have seen them in my heart like bright images in a mirror; I have heard them laugh many a time.”