What a
stinking mess it was all turning out to be. Why wasn't life, why
weren't women, reasonable? But he could not convince himself that
anything final--a separation--threatened them. Fanny couldn't force an
admission from him, nor speak of this, investigate it, anywhere else.
Savina was well able to take care of herself. There was nothing to do
but wait. In the process of that he once more picked up the magazine.
Fanny said unexpectedly:
"I ordered your Christmas present. It took all the money I had in the
Dime Savings Bank." He muttered a phrase to the effect that Christmas
was a season for children. This recalled his own--they wouldn't be
asleep yet--and, to escape temporarily from an impossible situation, to
secure the paper knife, he went up to see them.
* * * * *
They greeted him vociferously: before he could turn on the light they
were partly out of the covers, and the old argument about whose bed he
should sit on in full progress. Helena's was by the door, so, returning
her to the warmth of her blankets, he stopped beside her. The room,
with the windows fully open, was cold, but he welcomed the white frozen
purity of its barrenness. More than ever he was impressed by the
remoteness of the children's bed-room from the passionate disturbances
of living; but they, in the sense Fanny and he knew, weren't alive yet.
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