“It’s a sweet place, really!” she said, and amiably kissed him. “Let’s walk down by the lake.”
In a stilly place of ripples and birch boughs, he was moved to grip her shoulders.
She cried, “Darling, I have missed you! You’re wrong about lots of things, but you’re right about this—you must work, and not be disturbed by a lot of silly people. Do you like my tweeds? Don’t they look wildernessy? You see, I’ve come to stay! I’ll build a house near here; perhaps right across the lake. Yes. That will make a sweet place, over there on that sort of little plateau, if I can get the land—probably some horrid tight-fisted old farmer owns it. Can’t you just see it: a wide low house, with enormous verandas and red awnings—”
“And visitors coming?”
“I suppose so. Sometimes. Why?”
Desperately, “Joyce, I do love you. I want awfully, just now, to kiss you properly. But I will not have you bringing a lot of people—and there’d probably be a rotten noisy motor launch. Make our lab a joke. Roadhouse. New sensation. Why, Terry would go crazy! You are lovely! But you want a playmate, and I want to work. I’m afraid you can’t stay. No.”
“And our son is to be left without your care?”
“He— Would he have my care if I died?... He is a nice kid, too! I hope he won’t be a Rich Man!... Perhaps ten years from now he’ll come to me here.”
“And live like this?”
“Sure—unless I’m broke. Then he won’t live so well. We have meat practically every day now!”