Mrs. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. She could not help thinking of Capes. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. And in that respect they stir up one another.
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