"This is it, isn't it, Jane?" Jerry asked her.
"It's more than we intended to pay."
"Oh, well, I expected to pay more than we intended to. You like it, and I can paint here, so let's settle it."
"I should be happy here; this house speaks to me," she said.
So it was decided that it was to be theirs from June to October. They chatted happily over it all the way back to town. These summer excursions had brought them closer together than ever before, but with the summer plans settled, and Jane apparently the same as ever, Jerry fell back into his habit of playing about with Mrs. Brendon and Althea.
Jane went almost daily to her workshop. She did not always write; sometimes she sat and made baby clothes, thinking long, long thoughts. The room soothed her like a cool hand. In the afternoon she rested, and often she and Bobs went for a walk together. She told no one of her hopes.
Martin Christiansen had gone away on one of his frequent journeys and she missed him. He was the most stimulating influence in her mental life, and she begrudged his absences. He wrote her sometimes, wonderful letters, strong and full of flavour like his own personality.
Bobs turned off the avenue one day, just as Jerry stepped out of Althea's motor. She deliberately waited for him to overtake her.
"Hello, Jerry."