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—after one’s done one’s work, married off one’s children, kept the warrior-tribes from devouring the Indians—why not loaf and enjoy oneself in a country where there are good beds and good cooking?—and these for an object? The four of us would find plenty of occupation. We would constitute a perambulatory colony in ourselves and the young people would take care of us if we fell ill,’ and Ingpen smiled upon her. ‘Let’s run away,’ he said.

‘That’s just what one can’t do,’ said Monica. Whether he were serious or not she could not tell.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t quite know why not;—but it can’t be done;—because of this, I suppose.’ She indicated the room behind them. ‘The growth; the life. It has its roots; it holds one down;—one would soon wither if one left it.’

‘Well—I have no roots; nowhere in all the world have I any roots,’ said Ingpen, ‘and I’m withered already.’

‘So that you can run whenever it becomes too sodden.’ She gave him her hand, smiling.

‘Yes; I can run. It remains to be seen whether I shall,’ said Ingpen.