She saw herself growing old. The children would spring up so quickly. She would be left with her pride, to dress and make herself beautiful for an anonymous someone whose coming was indefinitely postponed. Youth would go from her. For interminable evenings, stretching into decades, she would watch afternoons fade into evenings. Everything would grow quiet. She would sit beneath the lamp at her sewing. The whispering parrot would take pity on her and croak, “What shall we talk about?” Even that game would end one day, for Robbie would become a man and marry. When that had happened it wouldn't be truthful for the parrot to tell her that Robbie loved her best. She would listen for the clock to strike, the fire to rustle, the coals to drop in the grate. Towards midnight taxis would enter the square. Lovers would alight. She would hear the paying of the fare, the tapping of a woman's high-heeled shoes on the pavement, the slipping of the key into the latch, the opening and closing of the door, and then again the silence. She would fold up her work, turn out the lights and stand alone in the darkness, invisible as a ghost. Ah, but he had not sailed yet. “Make hay, little girl, make hay.” His going was still only a threat. There was time, still time. She set a date to her respite. She would not gaze beyond it. If she could only have him till Christmas! Meanwhile he kept loyally to his contract that they should be happy together. He gave her lavishly of his time. If he guessed how much the gift meant, he said nothing to show it. He was like a great, friendly schoolboy in his cheerfulness; he filled every niche of her desire. Now, in the afternoon, when he took the children on adventures, she found herself included. On the return home, he shared with her the solemn rite of seeing them safely in bed. Then forth they would sally on some fresh excursion. Always and increasingly there was the gnawing knowledge that the end was nearer in sight--that soon to each of the habits they were forming they would have to say, “We have done it for the last time.” We, the bricks and mortar of the little house, watched her. We grew desperate, for we loved her. What we had observed and overheard by day we discussed together by night. If we could prevent it, we were determined that he should not go. “But, if he goes,” creaked the staircase, “he may return. They used to say in my young days that the heart grows fonder through absence.” “Rubbish,” banged the door on the first landing. “Rubbish, I say.” “He'll go,” ticked the grandfather clock pessimistically. “He'll go. He'll go.” “Not if I know it,” shouted the door and banged again.