November 30th?... In the defiant joy of departure, she had that morning ripped off from the block a whole handful of leaves; since what mattered the time of year, when she would be in warm lands?
Panic-stricken, she now tore at the little strip of paper, and the one beneath it, and then several at a time ... December—December 20th—only to get through till the summer months came round again—December 31st—that was the last one, gummed to the cardboard; she could not remove it ... December 31st.
And the winter-fear was on her.
PART III
CHAPTER I
"What are you doing, Gareth?"
"Reading. Do you want anything, dear?"
"No. Do you always prefer to read in that special position?"
He made no reply. He was very gentle now with Kathleen; very considerate. Perhaps his high-coloured boyish notions of ideal knighthood were never so nearly realized in him as during the present uncomplaining acceptance of his self-imposed life sentence.
Kneeling before the desk in the dining-room, he bent his head once more over the pile of type-script so engrossing him. His shoulders were hunched between Kathleen and the open lower drawer, as if to conceal from her its contents.