The clouds were sweeping toward them, hiding the blue; the wind whirled the dead leaves from the paths, and stirred the budding branches of the hundred-leaved bush—touched with its first hint of tender green. The mist from the fountain was like a veil which hid the mocking face of the bronze boy.
But Mary and Roger had no eyes for these warnings; each was famished for the other, and this meeting gave to Mary, at least, a sense of renewed life.
She spoke of her future. "Constance and Gordon want me to come to them. But I hate to give up my work. I don't want to be discontented. Yet I dread the loneliness here. Did you ever think I should be such a coward?"
"You are not a coward—you are a woman—wanting the things that belong to you."
She sat very still. "I wonder—what are the things which belong to a woman?"
"Love—a home—happiness."
"And you think I want these things?"
"I know it."
"How do you know?"
"Because you have tried work—and it has failed. You have tried independence—and it has failed. You have tried freedom, and have found it bondage."