* * * * * ... But softly without a sound the dark curtain has rolled down. There is no more to come. That is the end of the play. But it can’t end like that—so suddenly. There must be more. No, it’s cold, it’s still. There is nothing to be gained by waiting. But—did he go back again? Or, when the war was over, did he come home for good? Surely, he will marry—later on—not for several years. Surely, one day I shall remember his wedding and my first grandchild—a beautiful dark-haired boy born in the early morning—a lovely morning—spring! “Oh, Mother, it’s not fair to me to put these ideas into my head! Stop, Mother, stop! When I think of all I have missed, I can’t bear it.” * * * * * “I can’t bear it!” She sits up breathing the words and tosses the dark rug away. It is colder than ever, and now the dusk is falling, falling like ash upon the pallid water. And the little steamer, growing determined, throbbed on, pressed on, as if at the end of the journey there waited.... DAPHNE I had been in Port Willin six months when I decided to give a one-man show. Not that I was particularly keen, but little Field, the picture-shop man, had just started a gallery and he wanted me—begged me, rather—to kick off for him. He was a decent little chap; I hadn’t the heart to refuse. And besides, as it happened, I had a good deal of stuff that I felt it would be rather fun to palm off on any one who was fool enough to buy it. So with these high aims I had the cards printed, the pictures framed in plain white frames, and God knows how many cups and saucers ordered for the Private View. What was I doing in Port Willin? Oh well—why not? I’ll own it does sound an unlikely spot, but when you are an impermanent movable, as I am, it’s just those unlikely spots that have a trick of holding you. I arrived, intending to stay a week and go on to Fiji. But I had letters to one or two people, and the morning of my arrival, hanging over the side of the ship while we were waiting in the stream, with nothing on earth to do but stare, I took an extraordinary fancy to the shape—to the look of the place. It’s a small town, you know, planted at the edge of a fine deep harbour like a lake. Behind it, on either side there are hills. The houses are built of light painted wood. They have iron roofs coloured red. And there are big dark plumy trees massed together, breaking up those light shapes, giving a depth—warmth—making a composition of it well worth looking at.... Well, we needn’t go into that— But it had me that fine morning. And the first days after my arrival, walking, or driving out in one of the big swinging, rocking cabs, I took an equal fancy to the people.