And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely.

On the Indian carpet there fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came--and stayed, deepened--until it shone almost golden.
"The sun's out," said Josephine, as though it really mattered.
A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered.
Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then her hands fell again.

She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite Buddha.

And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day to be more than smiling.

He knew something; he had a secret.