And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. He smiled grandly; she could feel the radiance of his approval from across the wedding table. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. She ignored it until it repeated itself. She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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