She waited.

Mamma and Mark had turned their backs to her as they clung together. But there was his sparrow-brown hair, clipped close into the nape of his red-brown neck. If only Mamma wouldn’t cry like that⁠—

“Mark⁠—”

“Is that Minky?”

They held each other and let go in one tick of the clock, but she had stood a long time seeing his eyes arrested in their rush of recognition. Disappointed.

The square dinner-table stretched itself into an immense white space between her and Mark. It made itself small again for Mark and Mamma. Across the white space she heard him saying things: about Dan meeting him at Tilbury, and poor Victor coming to Liverpool Street, and Cox’s. Last night he had stayed at Ilford, he had seen Bella and Edward and Pidgeon and Mrs. Fisher and the Proparts. “Do you remember poor Edward and his sheep? And Mary’s lamb!”

Mark hadn’t changed, except that he was firmer and squarer, and thinner, because he had had fever. And his eyes⁠—He was staring at her with his disappointed eyes.

She called to him. “You don’t know me a bit, Mark.”

He laughed. “I thought I’d see somebody grown up. Victor said Mary was dreadfully mature. What did he mean?”

Mamma said she was sure she didn’t know.

“What do you do with yourself all day, Minky?”

“Nothing much. Read⁠—work⁠—play tennis with Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“Mr.⁠—Sutcliffe?”

“Never mind Mr. Sutcliffe. Mark doesn’t want to hear about him.”

“Is there a Mrs. Sutcliffe?”

“Yes.”

“Does she play?”

“No. She’s too old. Much older than he is.”

“That’ll do, Mary.”

Mamma’s eyes blinked. Her forehead was pinched with vexation. Her foot tapped on the floor.

Mark’s eyes kept up their puzzled stare.

“What’s been happening?” he said. “What’s the matter? Everywhere I go there’s a mystery. There was a mystery at Ilford. About Dan. And about poor Charlotte. I come down here and there’s a mystery about some people called Sutcliffe. And a mystery about Mary.” He laughed again. “Minky seems to be in disgrace, as if she’d done something.⁠ ⁠… It’s awfully queer. Mamma’s the only person something hasn’t happened to.”

“I should have thought everything had happened to me,” said Mamma.

“That makes it queerer.”

Mamma went up with Mark into his room. Papa’s room. You could hear her feet going up and down in it, and the squeaking wail of the wardrobe door as she opened and shut it.

She waited, listening. When she heard her mother come downstairs she went to him.

Mark didn’t know that the room had been Papa’s room. He didn’t know that she shivered when she saw him sitting on the bed. She had stood just there where Mark’s feet were and watched Papa die. She could feel the basin slipping, slipping from the edge of the bed.

Mark wasn’t happy. There was something he missed, something he wanted. She had meant to say, “It’s all right. Nothing’s happened. I haven’t done anything,” but she couldn’t think about it when she saw him sitting there.

“Mark⁠—what is it?”

“I don’t know, Minky.”

“I know. You’ve come back, and it isn’t like what you thought it would be.”

“No,” he said, “it isn’t.⁠ ⁠… I didn’t think it would be so awful without Papa.”

The big package in the hall had been opened. The tiger’s skin lay on the drawing-room carpet.

Mark was sorry for the tiger.

“He was only a young cat. You’d have loved him, Minky, if you’d seen him, with his shoulders down⁠—very big cat⁠—shaking his haunches at you, and his eyes shining and playing; cat’s eyes, sort of swimming and shaking with his fun.”

“How did you feel?”

“Beastly mean to go and shoot him when he was happy and excited.”

“Five years without any fighting.⁠ ⁠… Anything else happen?”

“No. No polo. No fighting. Only a mutiny in the battery once.”

“What was it like?”

“Oh, it just tumbled into the office and yelled and waved jabby things and made faces at you till you nearly burst with laughing.”

“You laughed?” Mamma said. “At a mutiny?”

“Anybody would. Minky’d have laughed if she’d been there. It frightened them horribly because they didn’t expect it. The poor things never know when they’re being funny.”

“What happened,” said Mary, “to the mutiny?”

“That.”

“Oh⁠—Mark⁠—” She adored him.

She went to bed, happy, thinking of the tiger and the mutiny. When Catty called her in the morning she jumped out of bed, quickly, to begin another happy day. Everything was going to be interesting, to be exciting.

At any minute anything might happen, now that Mark had come home.

“Mark, are you coming?”

She was tired of waiting on the flagstones, swinging her stick. She called through the house for him to come. She looked through the rooms, and found him in the study with Mamma. When they saw her they stopped talking suddenly, and Mamma drew herself up and blinked.

Mark shook his head. After all, he couldn’t come.

Mamma wanted him. Mamma had him. As long as they lived she would have him. Mamma and Mark were happy together; their happiness tingled, you could feel it tingling, like the happiness of lovers. They didn’t want anybody but each other. You existed for them as an object in some unintelligible time and in a space outside their space. The only difference was that Mark knew you were there and Mamma didn’t.

She chose the Garthdale road. Yesterday she had gone that way with Mamma and Mark. She had not talked to him, for when she talked the pinched, vexed look came into Mamma’s face though she pretended she hadn’t heard you. Every now and then Mark had looked at her over his shoulder and said, “Poor Minx.” It was as if he said, “I’m sorry, but you see how it is. I can’t help it.”

And just here, where the moor track touched the road, she had left them, clearing the watercourses, and had gone up towards Karva.

She had looked back and seen them going slowly towards the white sickle of the road, Mark very upright, taut muscles held in to his shortened stride; Mamma pathetic and fragile, in her shawl, moving with a stiff, self-hypnotised air.

Her love for them was a savage pang that cut her eyes and drew her throat tight.

Then suddenly she had heard Mark whooping, and she had run back, whooping and leaping, down the hill to walk with them again.

She turned back now, at the sickle. Perhaps Mark would come to meet her.

He didn’t come. She found them sitting close on the drawing-room sofa; the tea-table was pushed aside; they were looking at Mark’s photographs. She came and stood by them to see.

Mark didn’t look up or say anything. He went on giving the photographs to Mamma, telling her the names. “Dicky Carter. Man called St. John. Man called Bibby⁠—Jonas Bibby. Allingham. Peters. Gunning, Stobart Hamilton. Sir George Limond, Colonel Robertson.”

Photographs of women. Mamma’s fingers twitched as she took them, one by one. Women with smooth hair and correct, distinguished faces. She looked at each face a long time; her mouth half-smiled, half-pouted at them. She didn’t hand on the photographs to you, but laid them down on the sofa, one by one, as if you were not there.

A youngish woman in a black silk gown; Mrs. Robertson, the Colonel’s wife. A girl in a white frock; Mrs. Dicky Carter, she had nursed Mark through his fever. A tall woman in a riding habit and a solar topee, standing very straight, looking very straight at you, under the shadow of the topee. Mamma didn’t mind the others so much, but she was afraid of this one. There was danger under the shadow of the topee.

“Lady Limond.” Mark had stayed with them at Simla.

“Oh. Very handsome face.”

“Very handsome.”

You could see by Mark’s face that he didn’t care about Lady Limond.

Mamma had turned again to the girl in the white frock who had nursed him.

“Are those all, Mark?”

“Those are all.”

She took off her glasses and closed her eyes. Her face was smooth now: her hands were quiet. She had him. She would always have him.

But when he went away for a fortnight to stay with the man called St. John, she was miserable till he had come back, safe.

Whit Sunday morning. She would walk home with Mark after church while Mamma stayed behind for the Sacrament.

But it didn’t happen. Mark scowled as he turned out into the aisle to make way for her. He went back into the pew and sat there, looking stiff and stubborn. He would go up with Mamma to the altar rails. He would eat the bread and drink the wine.

That afternoon she took her book into the garden. Mark came to her there. Mamma, tired with the long service, dozed in the drawing-room.

Mark read over her shoulder: “ ‘Wir haben in der Transcendentalen Aesthetik hinreichend bewiesen.’ Do it in English.”

“ ‘In the Transcendental Aesthetic we have sufficiently proved that all that is perceived in space or time, and with it all objects of any experience possible to us are mere Vorstellungen⁠—Vorstellungen⁠—ideas⁠—presentations, which, so far as they are presented, whether as extended things or series of changes, have no existence grounded in themselves outside our thoughts⁠—’ ”

“Why have you taken to that dreadful stodge?”

“I’m driven to it. It’s like drink; once you begin you’ve got to go on.”

“What on earth made you begin?”

“I wanted to know things⁠—to know what’s real and what isn’t, and what’s at the back of everything, and whether there is anything there or not. And whether you can know it or not. And how you can know anything at all, anyhow. I’d give anything⁠ ⁠… Are you listening?”

“Yes, Minky, you’d give anything⁠—”

“I’d give everything⁠—everything I possess⁠—to know what the Thing-in-itself is.”

“I’d rather know Arabic. Or how to make a gun that would find its own range and feed itself with bullets sixty to the minute.”

“That would be only knowing a few; more things. I want the thing. Reality, Substance, the Thing-in-itself. Spinoza calls it God. Kant doesn’t; but he seems to think it’s all the God you’ll ever get, and that, even then, you can’t know it. Transcendental Idealism is just another sell.”

“Supposing,” Mark said, “there isn’t any God at all.”

“Then I’d rather know that than go on thinking there was one when there wasn’t.”

“But you’d feel sold?”

“Sort of sold. But it’s the risk⁠—the risk that makes it so exciting⁠ ⁠… Why? Do you think there isn’t any God?”

“I’m afraid I think there mayn’t be.”

“Oh, Mark⁠—and you went to the Sacrament. You ate it and drank it.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t believe in it any more than I do.”

“I never said anything about believing in it.”

“You ate and drank it.”

“Poor Jesus said he wanted you to do that and remember him. I did it and remembered Jesus.”

“I don’t care. It was awful of you.”

“Much more awful to spoil Mamma’s pleasure in God and Jesus. I did it to make her happy. Somebody had to go with her. You wouldn’t, so I did⁠ ⁠… It doesn’t matter, Minky. Nothing matters except Mamma.”

“Truth matters. You’d die rather than lie or do anything dishonourable. Yet that was dishonourable.”

“I’d die rather than hurt Mamma⁠ ⁠… If you make her unhappy, Minky, I shall hate you.”

“You can’t go in that thing.”

They were going to the Sutcliffes’ dance. Mamma hadn’t told Mark she didn’t like them. She wanted Mark to go to the dance. He had said Morfe was an awful hole and it wasn’t good for you to live in it.

The frock was black muslin, ironed out. Mamma’s black net Indian scarf, dotted with little green and scarlet flowers, was drawn tight over her hips to hide the place that Catty had scorched with the iron. The heavy, brilliant, silk-embroidered ends, green and scarlet, hung down behind. She felt exquisitely light and slender.

Mamma was shaking her head at Mark as he stared at you.

“If you knew,” he said, “what you look like⁠ ⁠… That’s the way the funny ladies dress in the bazaars⁠—If you’d only take that awful thing off.”

“She can’t take it off,” Mamma said. “He’s only teasing you.”

Funny ladies in the bazaars⁠—Funny ladies in the bazaars. Bazaars were Indian shops⁠ ⁠… Shopgirls⁠ ⁠… Mark didn’t mean shopgirls, though. You could tell that by his face and by Mamma’s⁠ ⁠… Was that what you really looked like? Or was he teasing? Perhaps you would tell by Mrs. Sutcliffe’s face. Or by Mr. Sutcliffe’s.

Their faces were nicer than ever. You couldn’t tell. They would never let you know if anything was wrong.

Mrs. Sutcliffe said, “What a beautiful scarf you’ve got on, my dear.”

“It’s Mamma’s. She gave it me.” She wanted Mrs. Sutcliffe to know that Mamma had beautiful things and that she would give them. The scarf was beautiful. Nothing could take from her the feeling of lightness and slenderness she had in it.

Her programme stood: Nobody. Nobody. Norman Waugh. Dr. Charles. Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Sutcliffe. Nobody. Nobody again, all the way down to Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe, Mr. Sutcliffe. Then Mark. Mr. Sutcliffe had wanted the last dance, the polka; but she couldn’t give it him. She didn’t want to dance with anybody after Mark.

The big, long dining-room was cleared; the floor waxed. People had come from Reyburn and Durlingham. A hollow square of faces. Faces round the walls. Painted faces hanging above them: Mr. Sutcliffe’s ancestors looking at you.

The awful thing was she didn’t know how to dance. Mark said you didn’t have to know. It would be all right. Perhaps it would come, suddenly, when you heard the music. Supposing it came like skating, only after you had slithered a lot and tumbled down?

The feeling of lightness and slenderness had gone. Her feet stuck to the waxed floor as if they were glued there. She was frightened.

It had begun. Norman Waugh was dragging her round the room. Once. Twice. She hated the feeling of his short, thick body moving a little way in front of her. She hated his sullen bull’s face, his mouth close to hers, half open, puffing. From the walls Mr. Sutcliffe’s ancestors looked at you as you shambled round, tied tight in your Indian scarf, like a funny lady in the bazaars. Raised eyebrows. Quiet, disdainful faces. She was glad when Norman Waugh left her on the window-seat.

Dr. Charles next. He was kind. You trod on his feet and he pretended he had trodden on yours.

“My dancing days are over.”

“And mine haven’t begun.”

They sat out and she watched Mark. He didn’t dance very well: he danced tightly and stiffly as if he didn’t like it; but he danced: with Miss Frewin and Miss Louisa Wright, because nobody else would; with the Acroyds because Mrs. Sutcliffe made him; five dances with Dorsy Heron, because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, because he found her looking sad and shy in a corner. You could see Dorsy’s eyes turn and turn, restlessly, to look at Mark, and her nose getting redder as he came to her.

Dr. Charles watched them. You knew what he was thinking. “She’s in love with him. She can’t take her eyes off him.”

Supposing you told her the truth? “He won’t marry you. He won’t care for you. He won’t care for anybody but Mamma. Can’t you see, by the way he looks at you, the way he holds you? It’s no use your caring for him. It’ll only make your little nose redder.”

He wouldn’t mind her red nose; her little proud, high-bridged nose. He liked her small face, trying to look austere with shy hare’s eyes; her vague mouth, pointed at the corners in a sort of sharp tenderness; her smooth, otter-brown hair brushed back and twisted in a tight coil at the nape of her neck. Dorsy was sweet and gentle and unselfish. He might have cared for Dorsy if it hadn’t been for Mamma. Anyhow, for one evening in her life Dorsy was happy, dancing round and round, with her wild black hare’s eyes shining.

Mr. Sutcliffe. She stood up. She would have to tell him.

“I can’t dance.”

“Nonsense. You can run and you can jump. Of course you can dance.”

“I don’t know how to.”

“The sooner you learn the better. I’ll teach you in two minutes.”

He steered her into the sheltered bay behind the piano. They practised.

“Mark’s looking at us.”

“Is he? What has he done to you, Mary? We’ll go where he can’t look at us.”

They went out into the hall.

“That’s it; your feet between mine. In and out. Don’t throw your shoulders back. Don’t keep your elbows in. It’s not a hurdle race.”

“I wish it was.”

“You won’t in a minute. Don’t count your steps. Listen for the beat. It’s the beat that does it.”

She began to feel light and slender again.

“Now you’re off. You’re all right.”

Off. Turning and turning. You steered through the open door; in and out among the other dancers; you skimmed; you swam, whirling, to the steady tump-tump of the piano, and the queer, exciting squeak of the fiddles⁠—

Whirling together, you and Mr. Sutcliffe and the piano and the two fiddles. One animal, one light, slender animal, whirling and playing. Every now and then his arm tightened round your waist with a sort of impatience. When it slackened you were one light, slender animal again, four feet and four arms whirling together, the piano was its heart, going tump-tump, and the fiddles⁠—

“Why did I think I couldn’t do it?”

“Funk. Pure funk. You wanted to dance⁠—you wanted to so badly that it frightened you.”

His arm tightened.

As they passed she could see Mrs. Sutcliffe sitting in an armchair pushed back out of the dancers’ way. She looked tired and bored and a little anxious.

When the last three dances were over he took her back to Mark.

Mark scowled after Mr. Sutcliffe.

“What does he look at you like that for?”

“Perhaps he thinks I’m⁠—a funny lady in a bazaar.”

“That’s the sort of thing you oughtn’t to say.”

“You said it.”

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t.”

He put his arm round her and they danced. They danced.

“You can do it all right now,” he said.

“I’ve learnt. He taught me. He took me outside and taught me. I’m not frightened any more.”

Mark was dancing better now. Better and better. His eyes shone down into yours. He whispered.

“Minky⁠—Poor Minky⁠—Pretty Minky.”

He swung you. He lifted you off your feet. He danced like mad, carrying you on the taut muscle of his arm.

Somebody said, “That chap’s waked up at last. Who’s the girl?”

Somebody said, “His sister.”

Mark laughed out loud. You could have sworn he was enjoying himself.

But when he got home he said he hadn’t enjoyed himself at all. And he had a headache the next day. It turned out that he hadn’t wanted to go. He hated dancing. Mamma said he had only gone because he thought you’d like it and because he thought it would be good for you to dance like other people.

“Why are you always going to the Sutcliffes’?” Mark said suddenly.

“Because I like them.”

They were coming down the fields from Greffington Edge in sight of the tennis court.

“You oughtn’t to like them when they weren’t nice to poor Papa. If Mamma doesn’t want to know them you oughtn’t to.”

Mark, too. Mark saying what Mamma said. Her heart swelled and tightened. She didn’t answer him.

“Anyhow,” he said, “you oughtn’t to go about all over the place with old Sutcliffe.” When he said “old Sutcliffe” his eyes were merry and insolent as they used to be. “What do you do it for?”

“Because I like him. And because there’s nobody else who wants to go about with me.”

“There’s Miss Heron.”

“Dorsy isn’t quite the same thing.”

“Whether she is or isn’t you’ve got to chuck it.”

“Why?”

“Because Mamma doesn’t like it and I don’t like it. That ought to be enough.” (Like Papa.)

“It isn’t enough.”

“Minky⁠—why are you such a brute to little Mamma?”

“Because I can’t help it⁠ ⁠… It’s all very well for you⁠—”

Mark turned in the path and looked at her; his tight, firm face tighter and firmer. She thought: “He doesn’t know. He’s like Mamma. He won’t see what he doesn’t want to see. It would be kinder not to tell him. But I can’t be kind. He’s joined with Mamma against me. They’re two to one. Mamma must have said something to make him hate me.”⁠ ⁠… Perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps he had only seen her disapproving, reproachful face⁠ ⁠… “If he says another word⁠—if he looks like that again, I shall tell him.”

“It’s different for you,” she said. “Ever since I began to grow up I felt there was something about Mamma that would kill me if I let it. I’ve had to fight for every single thing I’ve ever wanted. It’s awful fighting her, when she’s so sweet and gentle. But it’s either that or go under.”

“Minky⁠—you talk as if she hated you.”

“She does hate me.”

“You lie.” He said it gently, without rancour.

“No. I found that out years ago. She doesn’t know she hates me. She never knows that awful sort of thing. And of course she loved me when I was little. She’d love me now if I stayed little, so that she could do what she liked with me; if I’d sit in a corner and think as she thinks, and feel as she feels and do what she does.”

“If you did you’d be a much nicer Minx.”

“Yes. Except that I should be lying then, the whole time. Hiding my real self and crushing it. It’s your real self she hates⁠—the thing she can’t see and touch and get at⁠—the thing that makes you different. Even when I was little she hated it and tried to crush it. I remember things⁠—”

“You don’t love her. You wouldn’t talk like that about her if you loved her.”

“It’s because I love her. Her self. Her real self. When she’s working in the garden, planting flowers with her blessed little hands, doing what she likes, and when she’s reading the Bible and thinking about God and Jesus, and when she’s with you, Mark, happy. That’s her real self. I adore it. Selves are sacred. You ought to adore them. Anybody’s self. Catty’s.⁠ ⁠… I used to wonder what the sin against the Holy Ghost was. They told you nobody knew what it was. I know. It’s that. Not adoring the self in people. Hating it. Trying to crush it.”

“I see. Mamma’s committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, has she?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “You mustn’t go about saying those things. People will think you mad.”

“Let them. I don’t care⁠—I don’t care if you think I’m mad. I only think it’s beastly of you to say so.”

“You’re not madder than I am. We’re all mad. Mad as hatters. You and me and Dank and Roddy and Uncle Victor. Poor Charlotte’s the sanest of the lot, and she’s the only one that’s got shut up.”

“Why do you say she’s the sanest?”

“Because she knew what she wanted.”

“Yes. She knew what she wanted. She spent her whole life trying to get it. She went straight for that one thing. Didn’t care a hang what anybody thought of her.”

“So they said poor Charlotte was mad.”

“She was only mad because she didn’t get it.”

“Yes, Minx.⁠ ⁠… Would poor Minky like to be married?”

“No. I’m not thinking about that. I’d like to write poems. And to get away sometimes and see places. To get away from Mamma.”

“You little beast.”

“Not more beast than you. You got away. Altogether. I believe you knew.”

“Knew what?”

Mark’s face was stiff and red. He was angry now.

“That if you stayed you’d be crushed. Like Roddy. Like me.”

“I knew nothing of the sort.”

“Deep down inside you you knew. You were afraid. That’s why you wanted to be a soldier. So as not to be afraid. So as to get away altogether.”

“You little devil. You’re lying. Lying.”

He threw his words at you softly, so as not to hurt you. “Lying. Because you’re a beast to Mamma you’d like to think I’m a beast, too.”

“No⁠—no.” She could feel herself making it out more and more. Flash after flash. Till she knew him. She knew Mark.

“You had to. To get away from her, to get away from her sweetness and gentleness so that you could be yourself; so that you could be a man.”

She had a tremendous flash.

“You haven’t got away altogether. Half of you still sticks. It’ll never get away.⁠ ⁠… You’ll never love anybody. You’ll never marry.”

“No, I won’t. You’re right there.”

“Yes. Papa never got away. That was why he was so beastly to us.”

“He wasn’t beastly to us.”

“He was. You know he was. You’re only saying that because it’s what Mamma would like you to say.⁠ ⁠… He couldn’t help being beastly. He couldn’t care for us. He couldn’t care for anybody but Mamma.”

“That’s why I care for him,” Mark said.

“I know.⁠ ⁠… None of it would have mattered if we’d been brought up right. But we were brought up all wrong. Taught that our selves were beastly, that our wills were beastly and that everything we liked was bad. Taught to sit on our wills, to be afraid of our selves and not trust them for a single minute.⁠ ⁠… Mamma was glad when I was jilted, because that was one for me.”

“Were you jilted?”

“Yes. She thought it would make me humble. I always was. I am. I’m afraid of my self now. I can’t trust it. I keep on asking people what they think when I ought to know.⁠ ⁠… But I’m going to stop all that. I’m going to fight.”

“Fight little Mamma?”

“No. Myself. The bit of me that claws on to her and can’t get away. My body’ll stay here and take care of her all her life, but my self will have got away. It’ll get away from all of them. It’s got bits of them sticking to it, bits of Mamma, bits of Papa, bits of Roddy, bits of Aunt Charlotte. Bits of you, Mark. I don’t want to get away from you, but I shall have to. You’d kick me down and stamp on me if you thought it would please Mamma. There mayn’t be much left when I’m done, but at least it’ll be me.”

“Mad. Quite mad, Minx. You ought to be married.”

“And leave little Mamma?⁠ ⁠… I’ll race you from the bridge to the top of the hill.”

He raced her. He wasn’t really angry. Deep down inside him he knew.

November, and Mark’s last morning. He had got promotion. He was going back to India with a new battery. He would be stationed at Poona, a place he hated. Nothing ever happened as he wanted it to happen.

She was in Papa’s room, helping him to pack. The wardrobe door gave out its squeaking wail again and again as he opened it and threw his things on to the bed. Her mother had gone away because she couldn’t bear to see them, his poor things.

They were all folded now and pressed down into the boxes and portmanteaus. She sat on the bed with Mark’s sword across her knees, rubbing vaseline on the blade. Mark came and stood before her, looking down at her.

“Minky, I don’t like going away and leaving Mamma with you.⁠ ⁠… When I went before you promised you’d be kind to her.”

“What do I do?”

There was a groove down the middle of the blade for the blood to run in.

“Do? You do nothing. Nothing. You don’t talk to her. You don’t want to talk to her. You behave as if she wasn’t there.”

The blade was blunt. It would have to be sharpened before Mark took it into a battle. Mark’s eyes hurt her. She tried to fix her attention on the blade.

“What makes you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever it is it was done long ago.”

“She hasn’t got anybody,” he said. “Roddy’s gone. Dan’s no good to her. She won’t have anybody but you.”

“I know, Mark. I shall never go away and leave her.”

“Don’t talk about going away and leaving her!”

He didn’t want her to see him off at the train. He wanted to go away alone, after he had said goodbye to Mamma. He didn’t want Mamma to be left by herself after he had gone.

They stood together by the shut door of the drawing-room. She and her mother stood between Mark and the door. She had said goodbye a minute ago, alone with him in Papa’s room. But there was something they had missed⁠—

She thought: “We must get it now, this minute. He’ll say goodbye to Mamma last. He’ll kiss her last. But I must kiss him again, first.”

She came to him, holding up her face. He didn’t see her; but when his arm felt her hand it jerked up and pushed her out of his way, as he would have pushed anything that stood there between him and Mamma.