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 to the music of the wind in their needles. Something stabbed Sheilah sharply at that. Oh, she wished Cicely wouldn't write her any more.

She arose from the table, and began her preliminary preparations for supper, but she did not hum. If she had read Roddie's and Laetitia's letters after Cicely's she would not have laughed out loud. Always Cicely's references to Roger broke through the smooth surface of her serenity like this, and riled the quieted waters underneath.

There was no reason of course for Roger to be constant to her. But she had thought that like herself, perhaps he would not escape constancy. It hurt her terribly that he could so quickly share experiences with another woman that she had believed were sacred to herself alone. It robbed her renunciation of much of its beauty and glory. 'Oh, well,' she shrugged and sighed. A man's constancy, she guessed, even Roger's, depended upon propinquity. Just as well to find it out. Her cure would prove more permanent, the sooner she stopped idealizing Roger. Anyhow, what difference did it make to her now, what he did, whom he saw? She was happy, wasn't she?

'Yes, I am happy.' Stoically she assured herself and mechanically, with the efficiency of long practice, turned her mind to happy subjects—the children all doing so well, Felix more contented than he