She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear. He reached for her and she stroked his head soothingly as his mother had done a few times when he had suffered bad fevers. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. It was as if he could smell it on her.
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