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. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. The Widow and her Child II. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. The doctor nodded to him curtly. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview.
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