COMMUTER'S WIFE 79 



chanced to have, what sort of rain it was. She 

 looked blankly at me, then out of the window as 

 if hardly comprehending my meaning and replied, 

 "Just plain rain, miss, there isn't any thunder." 

 A countrywoman would have said either a grow- 

 ing, a cold, a washout, a spring filling, or a smart 

 rain, according to the facts. 



I am sitting in the long, unsealed attic that is 

 lighted with a dormer window at either end. A 

 comfortable open-fronted wood stove glows away 

 by the chimney that fills the centre of the loft. 

 This has been my playroom ever since I left the 

 nursery and those far-away mother arms slipped 

 from about me. Now that I've come back I think 

 that I appreciate its privacy more than ever, and 

 keep it for a playroom still. Why may not grown- 

 ups have playrooms where they can throw off con- 

 ventionalities and restraint, be silly or only idle, 

 and romp either mentally or physically as they 

 please ? The garden of course is the best place 

 for these wild moods in seasonable weather, but 

 even then one needs an indoor retreat, a place to 

 lie flat on an old, unhurtable sofa, and think alter- 

 nately of everything and nothing, well out of the 

 reach of sudden callers. 



What odious things callers are ! I love my friends 



