"Are those all, Mark?"
"Those are all."
She took off her glasses and closed her eyes. Her face was smooth now: her hands were quiet. She had him. She would always have him.
But when he went away for a fortnight to stay with the man called St.
John, she was miserable till he had come back, safe.
IV.
Whit Sunday morning. She would walk home with Mark after church while
Mamma stayed behind for the Sacrament.
But it didn't happen. Mark scowled as he turned out into the aisle to make way for her. He went back into the pew and sat there, looking stiff and stubborn. He would go up with Mamma to the altar rails. He would eat the bread and drink the wine.
That afternoon she took her book into the garden. Mark came to her there.
Mamma, tired with the long service, dozed in the drawing-room.
Mark read over her shoulder: "'Wir haben in der Transcendentalen
Aesthetik hinreichend bewiesen.' Do it in English."
"'In the Transcendental Aesthetic we have sufficiently proved that all that is perceived in space or time, and with it all objects of any experience possible to us are mere Vorstellungen—Vorstellungen— ideas—presentations, which, so far as they are presented, whether as extended things or series of changes, have no existence grounded in themselves outside our thoughts—'"