Her mother had taken the children downtown, to be out of the way when she should go. But they had already accepted the fact that they were to stay with their grandparents in Maine and would probably miss her very little, if at all.

She picked up the telegram she had received from her husband and read it again. She was glad about the new appointment, and happy for him that his book had been taken by Scribners, the book which had been keeping him from her for so long; but she couldn’t help wondering if his new duties at the University and the extra work and time which they would entail might not come between them even more.

A photograph of her husband stood on the dresser. It was a good likeness and she loved the picture; he had always seemed to her a very handsome man. He had thick sandy hair with a slight wave, and a full mustache of the same sandy color. The forehead was almost his best feature, it was high and clear, with a real distinction. The eyes were light brown: honest, and very young looking. His nose had substantial manly nostrils and the mouth was wide and firm, with full and rather sensual lips. She remembered well how those lips parted slightly when they kissed her—when they covered her own mouth completely—and how an intoxication swept through her then as if that moment were almost enough. She gazed at the photograph of the only man she had ever loved or wanted in her life and wondered how long it had been since he had kissed her like that. Weeks? Months? Could it really be months? It was well that she didn’t know. Had she known exactly she might have had real reason for despair. As it was, she could still go on from day to day in the hope that tonight might be the night, or at most tomorrow.