"Wait," he said. "Wait a bit. Wait three years." "Three years?" she said. "Three years before we can go for another walk?" He shouted laughter and drew it back with a groan. She couldn't tell him that she pretended he was there when he was not there; that she created situations. He was ill, and she nursed him. She could feel the weight of his head against her arm, and his forehead--hot--hot under her hand. She had felt her hands to see whether they would be nice enough to put on Mr. Jourdain's forehead. They were rather nice; cool and smooth; the palms brushed together with a soft, swishing sound like fine silk. He was poor and she worked for him. He was in danger and she saved him. From a runaway horse; from a furious dog; from a burning house; from a lunatic with a revolver. It made her sad to think how unlikely it was that any of these things would ever happen. III. "Mr. Jourdain, I am going to school." The corn was reaped and carried. The five elms stood high above the shallow stubble. "My poor Mary, is it possible?" "Yes. Mamma says she's been thinking of it for a long time." "Don't be too hard on your mother till you're quite sure it wasn't my aunt." "It may have been both of them. Anyhow, it's awful. Just--just when I was so happy." "Just when I was so happy," he said. "But that's the sort of thing they do." "I knew you'd be sorry for me." XVIII I. She was shut up with Papa, tight, in the narrow cab that smelt of the mews. Papa, sitting slantways, nearly filled the cab. He was quiet and sad, almost as if he were sorry she was going. His sadness and quietness fascinated her. He had a mysterious, wonderful, secret life going on in him. Funny you should think of it for the first time in the cab. Supposing you stroked his hand. Better not. He mightn't like it. Not forty minutes from Liverpool Street to Victoria. If only cabs didn't smell so. II. The small, ugly houses streamed past, backs turned to the train, stuck together, rushing, rushing in from the country. Grey streets, trying to cut across the stream, getting nowhere, carried past sideways on. Don't look at the houses. Shut your eyes and remember. Her father's hand on her shoulder. His face, at the carriage window, looking for her. A girl moving back, pushing her to it. "Papa!" Why hadn't she loved him all the time? Why hadn't she liked his beard? His nice, brown, silky beard. His poor beard. Mamma's face, in the hall, breaking up suddenly. Her tears in your mouth. Her arms, crushing you. Mamma's face at the dining-room window. Tears, pricking, cutting your eyelids. Blink them back before the girls see them. Don't think of Mamma.