And, because they had both decided that they would have that house whatever happened, they began to argue and to tease each other.  Anthony had said it was all right, only the tree of Heaven wasn’t a tree of Heaven; it was a common ash.  He was one of the biggest timber merchants in the country and he ought to know.  Frances said she mightn’t know much, but she did know that was the kind of tree the people down in her part of the country called a tree of Heaven.  Anthony said he couldn’t help that.  It didn’t matter what they called it.  It was a common ash.

Then she told him he had no poetry in his composition.  She had always dreamed of having a tree of Heaven in her garden; and he was destroying her dream.  He replied that he didn’t want to destroy her dream, but the tree really was an ash.  You could tell by the bark, and by the leaves and by the number and the shape of the leaflets.  And anyhow, that was the first he’d heard about her dream.

“You don’t know,” said Frances, “what goes on inside me.”

She said that if any of the children developed an imagination he needn’t think he had anything to do with it.

“I shan’t,” said Anthony.  “I wouldn’t have anything to do with it if I could.  Facts are good enough for me.  The children must be brought up to realize facts.”

An ash-tree was a fact and a tree of Heaven was a fancy; unless by any chance she meant ailanthus glandulosa. (He knew she didn’t.) If she wanted to know, the buds of the ash were black like ebony.  The buds of the tree of Heaven were rose-red, like—­like bad mahogany.  Wait till the spring and look at the buds.

Frances waited till the spring and looked at the buds, and, sure enough, they were black like ebony.

Anthony also said that if they were choosing a house for the children, it was no earthly use to think about the old people.  For the old people would go and the children would remain.

As if to show how right he was, Grandpapa had died early in that summer of ’ninety-five, one month after they had moved into West End House.  That still left Grannie and Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie Edie for Anthony to look after.

* * * * *

She was thinking of them now.  She hoped that they would come early in time to see the children.  She also hoped that they would go early, so that she and Anthony might have their three sets of tennis before dinner in peace.

There would be no peace if Louie and Edie wanted to play too.  The one thing that Anthony could not stand was people wanting to do things they couldn’t do, and spoiling them for those who could.  He used to say that the sight of Louie anywhere near the tennis court put him off his stroke.

Again, the faint illusion of worry was created by the thought that this dreadful thing might happen, that Louie and Edie might want to play and that Anthony would be put off his stroke and be annoyed, and that his annoyance, his just and legitimate annoyance, would spoil the perfection of the afternoon.  And as she played with the illusion it made more real her tranquillity, her incredible content.