They went back up the lawn, quietly, and the day felt more and more like
Sunday, or like—like a funeral day.
"She's very silent, this small daughter of yours," Mr. Fielding said.
"Yes," said Mr. Severn.
His voice came with a stiff jerk, as if it choked him. He remembered, too.
ii
The grey and yellow flagstones of the terrace were hot under your feet.
Jerrold's mother lay out there on a pile of cushions, in the sun. She was very large and very beautiful. She lay on her side, heaved up on one elbow. Under her thin white gown you could see the big lines of her shoulder and hip, and of her long full thigh, tapering to the knee.
Anne crouched beside her, uncomfortably, holding her little body away from the great warm mass among the cushions.
Mrs. Fielding was aware of this shrinking. She put out her arm and drew
Anne to her side again.
"Lean back," she said. "Close. Closer."