"My work, Mary."
She took his arm and started towards the house. "You must let me come and see what wonderful things you are doing."
"I am doing nothing wonderful," he said slowly. "It has taken me all this time to realize I was never a sculptor; I have been so atrociously idle, Mary."
"But you need rest, my dear Tony."
"I shall not need any rest until I am an old man."
He caressed the hand that lay on his arm. They walked past the flower-beds, and she picked the dead roses, cutting the withered leaves, and talking to him gaily, telling him all she had done during the days of their separation, and suddenly he said—
"You do not seem to have missed me."
"Everywhere," she answered, pressing his arm.
They walked together slowly to the house, where she left her roses in the hall and took him into the
music-room, where they had been last when he left her, the afternoon following the luncheon.