Again she was curdled.
"But—"
"They spoil it."
She was silent; and the silence of the two ladies appeared to acquire a frost.
"It is the fatal habit of Sundays," he went on, following the disappearing land with his eyes, "to recur."
He paused, as if waiting for her to agree.
She had to, because it was a truth one could not get away from. "Yes," she said, reluctantly. "Of course. It's their nature." Then a wave of memories suddenly broke over her, and she added warmly "Oh don't they!"
The frost of the ladies seemed to settle down. It grew heavy.
"They interrupt one's work," he said.
"But they are your work," she said, puzzled.