Love-making at first hand is dull enough. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. 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.
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