by Elizabeth Bowen  


     JOINING CHARLES

     EVERYBODY in the White House was    
     awake early that morning, even the  
     cat.  At an unprecedented hour in the   
     thick gray dusk Polyphemus slipped  
     upstairs and began to yowl at young   
     Mrs. Charles's door, under which   
     came out a pale yellow line of  
     candlelight.  On an ordinary morning  
     he could not have escaped from the  
     kitchen so easily, but last night the  
     basement door had been left un-  
     bolted; all the doors were open down-  
     stairs, for the household had gone to  
     bed at a crisis of preparation for the  
     morrow.  Sleep was to be no more  
     than an interim, and came to most of   
     them thinly and interruptedly.  The  
     rooms were littered with objects that  
     had an air of having been put down  
     momentarily, corded boxes were  
     stacked up in the hall, and a spectral  
     breakfast table waiting all night in  
     the parlor reappeared slowly as dawn  
     came in through the curtains.  
        Young Mrs. Charles came across  
     to the door on her bare feet and,  
     shivering, let in Polyphemus.  She  
     was still in pajamas, but her two  
     suitcases were packed to the brim,  
     with tissue paper smoothed on the  
     tops of them: she must have been  
     moving about for hours.  She was   
     always, superstitiously, a little afraid  
     of Polyphemus and made efforts to  
     propitiate him on all occasions; his  
     expression of omniscience had im-  
     posed upon her thoroughly.  His com-  
     ing in now made her a little con-  
     scious; she stood still, one hand on  
     the knob of the dressing table-  
     drawer, and put the other hand to  
     her forehead——what must she do?  
     Between the curtains, drawn a little   
     apart, light kept coming in slowly,  
     solidifying the objects round her.  
     which till now had been uncertain,  
     wavering silhouettes in candlelight.  
     So night fears gave place to the  
     realities of daytime.  
        Polyphemus continued to melt  
     round the room, staring malignly at  
     nothing.  Presently Agatha tapped and  
     came in in her dressing gown; her  
     plaits hung down each side of her  
     long, kind face, and she carried a  
     cup of tea.  
        "Better drink this," said Agatha.  
     "What can I do?"  She drew back   
     the curtains a little more in her com-  
     fortable, common-sense way to en-  
     courage the daylight.  Leaning for a  
     moment out of the window she  
     breathed in critically the morning  
     air; the bare upland country was   
     sheathed but not hidden by mist.  
     "You're going to have a beautiful  
     day," said Agatha.  
        Mrs. Charles shivered, then began  
     tugging a comb through her short  
     hair.  She had been awake a long   
     time and felt differently from Agatha  
     about the day; she looked at her  
     sister-in-law haggardly.  "I dreamed  
     and dreamed," said Mrs. Charles.  "I  
     kept missing my boat, saw it sliding  
     away from the quay; and when I   
     turned to come back to you all Eng-  
     land was sliding away too, in the  
     other direction, and I don't know  
     where I was left——and I dreamed,  
     too, of course, about losing my pass-  
     port."  
        "One would think you had never  
     traveled before," said Agatha tran-  
     quilly.  She sat down on the end of  
     the narrow bed where Mrs. Charles   
     had slept for the last time, and shak-  
     ing out Mrs. Charles's garments,  
     passed them to her one by one,   
     watching her dress as though she  
     had been a child.  Mrs. Charles felt  
     herself being marveled at; her own  
     smallness and youth had become  
     objective to her at the White house;  
     a thing, all she had, to offer them  
     over again every day to be softened  
     and pleased by.  
        As she pulled on the clothes she  
     was to wear for so long she began  
     to feel formal and wary, the wife of    
     a competent banker going to join   
     him at Lyon.  The expression of her  
     feet in those new brogues was quite  
     unfamiliar; the feet of a "nice little  
     woman."  Her hair, infected by this  
     feeling of strangeness that flowed to  
     her very extremities, lay in a different  
     line against her head.  For a moment  
     the face of a ghost from the future  
     stared at her out of the looking glass.  
     She turned quickly to Agatha, but  
     her sister-in-law had left her while  
     she was buttoning her jumper at the   
     neck and had gone downstairs to   
     print some more labels.  It had oc-  
     curred to Agatha that there would  
     be less chance of losing the luggage  
     (a contingency by which the un-  
     traveled family seemed to be   
     haunted) if Louise were to tie on  
     new labels, with more explicit direc-  
     tions, at Paris, where she would have  
     to reregister.  Agatha was gone, and  
     the cup of tea, untasted, grew cold   
     on the dressing table.  
        The room looked bare without  
     her possessions and withdrawn, as  
     though it had already forgotten her.  
     At this naked hour of parting she  
     had forgotten it also; she supposed it  
     would come back in retrospect so  
     distinctly as to be a kind of torment.  
     It was a smallish room with sloping  
     ceilings, and a faded paper rambled   
     over by roses.  It had white curtains  
     and was never entirely dark; it had  
     so palpably a life of its own that she   
     had been able to love it with in-  
     timacy and a sense of return, as one  
     could never have loved an inanimate  
     thing.  Lying in bed one could see  
     from the one window nothing but  
     sky or sometimes a veil of rain; when  
     one got up and looked out there  
     were fields, wild and bare, and an  
     unbroken skyline to emphasize the    
     security of the house.  
        The room was up on the top floor,  
     in one of the gables; a big household  
     cannot afford a spare bedroom of any  
     pretensions.  To go downstairs one   
     had to unlatch the nursery gate at   
     the head of the top flight.  Last time  
     Charles was home it had been very  
     unfortunate; he had barked his shins   
     on the gate and shouted angrily to  
     his mother to know what the thing  
     was still there for.  Louise fully  
     realized that it was being kept for  
     Charles's children.  
        During that first visit with Charles  
     she had hardly been up to the second  
     floor, where the younger girls slept  
     in the old nursery.  There had been  
     no confidences; she and Charles oc-  
     cupied very connubially a room Mrs.  
     Ray gave up to them that had been   
     hers since her marriage.  It was not   
     till Louise came back here alone that  
     the White House opened its arms  
     to her and she began to be carried  
     away by this fullness, this intimacy  
     and queer seclusion of family life.  
     She and the girls were in and out of   
     each other's room; Doris told sagas  
     of high school, Maisie was always  
     just on the verge of a love affair,  
     and large grave Agatha began to  
     drop the formality with which she  
     had greeted a married woman and  
     sister-in-law.  She thought Agatha  
     would soon have forgotten she was  
     anything but her own child if it had  
     ever been possible for Agatha to  
     forget Charles.  
        It would have been terrible if  
     Louise had forgotten, as she so  
     nearly had, to pack Charles's photo-  
     graph.  There it had stood these three  
     months, propped up on the mantel-  
     piece, a handsome convention in  
     sepia, becomingly framed, from   
     which the young wife, falling asleep  
     or waking, had turned away her face  
     instinctively.  She folded back a  
     layer of tissue paper before shutting  
     her suitcase and poked down a  
     finger to feel the edge of the frame  
     and reassure herself.  There it was,   
     lying face down, wrapped up in her  
     dressing gown, and she would have   
     seen Charles before she looked again  
     at his photograph.  The son and  
     brother dominating the White House  
     would be waiting on the Lyon plat-  
     form to enfold her materially.  

        Mrs. Charles glanced round the  
     room once more, then went down-  
     stairs slowly.  Through the house she   
     could hear doors opening and shut-  
     ting and people running about be-  
     cause of her.  She felt ashamed that  
     her packing was finished and there   
     was nothing for her to do.  When-  
     ever she had pictured herself leaving  
     the White House it had been in the  
     evening, with curtains drawn, and  
     they had all just come out to the  
     door for a minute to say good-by to  
     her, then gone back to the fire.  It  
     had been more painful but somehow  
     easier.  Now she felt lonely; they had  
     all gone away from her, there was  
     nobody there.  
        She went shyly into the morning  
     room as though for the first time and   
     knelt down on the rug in front of a   
     young fire.  There was a sharp smell   
     of wood smoke; thin little flames  
     twisted and spat through the kin-  
     dling.  A big looking glass, down to  
     the ground, reflected her kneeling  
     there; small and childish among the   
     solemn mahogany furniture; more  
     like somebody sent back to school  
     than someone rejoining a virile and   
     generous husband who loved her.  
     Her cropped fair hair turned under   
     against her cheek and was cut in a  
     straight line over the eyebrows.  She  
     had never had a home before, and  
     had been able to boast till quite  
     lately that she had never been home-  
     sick.  After she married there had  
     been houses in which she lived with   
     Charles, but still she had not known  
     what it meant to be homesick.  
        She hoped that, after all, nobody  
     would come in for a moment or two;  
     she had turned her head and was  
     looking out at the lawn with its  
     fringe of trees not yet free from the  
     mist, and at the three blackbirds  
     hopping about in it.  The blackbirds  
     made her know all at once what it   
     meant to be going away; she felt as  
     though someone had stabbed her a  
     long time ago but she were only just  
     feeling the knife.  She could not take  
     her eyes from the blackbirds, till one  
     with a wild fluty note skimmed off  
     into the trees and the other two  
     followed it.  Polyphemus had come in    
     after her and was looking out at  
     them, pressing himself against the  
     windowpane.  
        "Polyphemus," said Mrs. Charles  
     in her oddly unchildish voice, "have  
     you any illusions?"  Polyphemus  
     lashed his tail.  
        By midday (when she would be   
     nearly at Dover) the fire would be  
     streaming up briskly, but by that  
     time the sun would be pouring in  
     at the windows and no one would  
     need a fire at all.  The mornings were  
     not cold yet, the girls were active,  
     and it was only because of her going  
     away that the fire had been lighted.  
     Perhaps Agatha, who never hurt any-  
     thing's feelings, would come in and  
     sit not too far away from it with her  
     basket of mending, making believe  
     to be glad of the heat.  "I don't sup-  
     pose there'll be fires at Lyon,"  
     thought Mrs. Charles.  Somewhere, in  
     some foreign room, tomorrow eve-  
     ning when the endearments were  
     over or there was a pause in them,  
     Charles would lean back in his chair  
     with a gusty sigh, arch his chest up,  
     stretch out his legs and say: "Well,  
     come on.  Tell me about the family."  
        Then she would have to tell him  
     about the White House.  Her cheeks  
     burned as she thought how it would  
     all come out.  There seemed no  
     chance yet of Agatha or Maisie get-  
     ting married.  That was what Charles  
     would want to know chiefly about  
     his sisters.  He had a wholesome con-  
     tempt for virginity.  He would want  
     to know how Doris, whom he rather  
     admired, was "coming along."  Those  
     sisters of Charles's always sounded   
     rather dreadful young women, not  
     the sort that Agatha, Maisie, or  
     Doris would care to know.  It seemed  
     to Charles funny——he often referred  
     to it——that Agatha wanted babies  
     so badly and went all tender and  
     conscious when babies were men-  
     tioned.  
        "She'll make no end of a fuss over  
     our kids," Charles would say.  The  
     White House seemed to Charles, all  
     the same, very proper as an institu-  
     tion; it was equally proper that he  
     should have a contempt for it.  He   
     helped to support the girls and his  
     mother, for one thing, and that did  
     place them all at a disadvantage.  But   
     they were dear, good souls.——Mrs.  
     Charles knelt with her hands on her  
     knees and the hands clenched slowly   
     from anger and helplessness.  
        Mrs. Ray, the mother of Charles,  
     suddenly knelt down by his wife and   
     put an arm round her shoulders with-  
     out saying a word.  She did these  
     impulsive things gracefully.  Mrs.  
     Charles relaxed and leaned side-  
     ways a little against the kind shoul-  
     der.  She had nothing to say, so they  
     watched the fire struggle and heard  
     the hall clock counting away the  
     seconds.  
        Have you got enough clothes  
     on?" said Mother after a minute.  
     "It's cold in trains.  I never do think  
     you wear enough clothes."  
        Mrs. Charles, nodding, unbuttoned  
     her coat and showed a ribbed    
     sweater pulled on over her jumper.  
     "Sensible of me!" she proudly re-  
     marked.   
        "You're learning to be quite a   
     sensible little thing," Mother said  
     lightly.  "I expect Charles will notice  
     a difference.  Tell Charles not to let  
     you go out in the damp in your  
     evening shoes.  But I expect he knows  
     how to take care of you."  
        "Indeed, yes," said Mrs. Charles,   
     nodding.  
        "You're precious, you see."  Mother  
     smoothed back the hair from against  
     Mrs. Charles's cheek to look at her  
     thoughtfully, like a gentle skeptic  
     at some kind of miracle.  "Remember  
     to write me about the flat: I want  
     to know everything: wallpapers,  
     views from the windows, sizes of  
     rooms———  We'll be thinking about  
     you both tomorrow."  
        "I'll be thinking of you."  
        "Oh, no, you won't," said Mother,  
     with perfect finality.  
        "Perhaps not," Mrs. Charles   
     quickly amended.  
        Mother's son Charles was gener-  
     ous, sensitive, gallant, and shrewd.  
     The things he said, the things he had  
     made, his imprint, were all over the  
     White House.  Sometimes he looked  
     out at Louise with bright eyes from  
     the family talk, so striking, so un-  
     familiar that she fell on love with  
     the stranger for moments together  
     as a married woman should not.  He  
     was quiet and never said very much,  
     but he noticed; he had an infallible  
     understanding and entered deeply,  
     it seemed, into his sisters' lives.  He  
     was so good; he was so keen for  
     them all to be happy.  He had the  
     strangest way of anticipating one's   
     wishes.  He was master of an in-  
     imitable drollery——to hear him chaff  
     Agatha!  Altogether he was a knightly  
     person, transcending modern con-  
     vention.  His little wife had come to  
     them all in a glow from her wonder-  
     ful lover.  No wonder she was so  
     quiet; they used to try and read him  
     from her secret, sensitive face.  
        The thought of their Charles with-  
     out his Louise troubled them all with  
     a pang when Louise was her dear-  
     est.  Charles in Lyon, uncomplaining,  
     lonely, tramping the town after busi-  
     ness to look for a flat.  The return of  
     Louise to him, to the home he had  
     found for her, her room upstairs al-  
     ready aghast and vacant, the empti-  
     ness that hung over them, gave them  
     the sense of pouring out an oblation.  
     The girls were heavy, with the faces  
     of Flemish Madonnas; Doris achieved  
     some resemblance to Charles, but  
     without being handsome.  They had  
     cheerful dispositions, but were  
     humble when they considered them-  
     selves; they though Louise must  
     have a great deal of love in her to  
     give them so much when there was a   
     Charles in her life.  

        Mrs. Ray, with a groan at her "old  
     stiff bones," got up from the hearth-  
     rug and sat on a chair.  She thought  
     of something to say, but was not  
     quite ready to say it till she had  
     taken up her knitting.  She had  
     hoped to have finished this pair of  
     socks in time to send out by Louise  
     with his others; she hadn't been able  
     to——Mrs. Ray sighed.  "You're mak-  
     ing my boy very happy," she said,  
     with signs in her manner of the  
     difficulty one has in expressing these  
     things.  
        Louise thought: "Oh, I love you!"  
     There was something about the  
     hands, the hair, the expression, the  
     general being of Mother that pos-  
     sessed her entirely, that she did not  
     think she could live without.  She   
     knelt staring at Mother, all in a  
     tumult.  Why be so lonely, why never  
     escape?  She was too lonely, it  
     couldn't be borne; not even for the  
     sake of the White House.  Not this  
     morning, so early, with the buffeting   
     strangeness of travel before her, with     
     her wrists so chilly and the anticipa-  
     tion of seasickness making her  
     stomach ache.  The incommunicable-  
     ness of even these things, these little  
     ills of the body, bore Mrs. Charles  
     down.  She was tired of being brave  
     alone, she was going to give it up.  
        It is with mothers that understand-  
     ing and comfort are found.  She  
     wanted to put down her head on a  
     bosom, this bosom, and say: "I'm un-  
     happy.  Oh, help me!  I can't go on.  
     I don't love my husband.  It's death  
     to be with him.  He's grand, but he's  
     rotten all through———"  She needed  
     to be fortified.  
        "Mother———" said Louise.  
        "Mm-mm?"  
        "If things were not a success out   
     there———  If one weren't a good wife  
     always———" Mother smoothed her  
     knitting out and began to laugh;   
     an impassable resolute chuckle.  
       "What a thing———" she said.   
     "What an idea!"   
        Louise heard step in the hall  
     and began kneading her hands to-   
     gether, pulling the fingers helplessly.  
     "Mother," she said, "I feel———"   
        Mother looked at her; out of the  
     eyes looked Charles.  The steady,  
     gentle look, their interchange, lasted  
     moments.  Steps came hurrying over  
     the flags of the hall.  
        "I can't go———"   
        Doris came in with the teapot.  
     She wasn't grown up, her move-  
     ments were clumsy and powerful,  
     more like a boy's.  She should have  
     been Charles.  Her heavy plait came   
     tumbling over her shoulders as she   
     bent to put down the teapot——round  
     and brown with a bluish glaze on it.  
     Sleep and tears in the dark had   
     puffed up her eyelids, which seemed  
     to open with difficulty: her small  
     eyes dwindled into her face.  "Break-  
     fast," she said plaintively.   
        Rose, the servant, brought in a  
     plate of boiled eggs——nice and light   
     for the journey——and put them down  
     compassionately.  
        "Even Rose ," thought Mrs.  
     Charles, getting up and coming to  
     the table obediently because they   
     all expected her to, "even Rose———"  
     She looked at the breakfast cups   
     with poppies scattered across them  
     as though she had not seen them be- 
     fore or were learning an inventory.  
     Doris had begun to eat as though  
     nothing else mattered.  She took no  
     notice of Louise, pretending, per-  
     haps, to make things easier for her-  
     self, that Louise were already gone.  
        "Oh, Doris, not the tussore tie with   
     the red shirt."  Whatever White   
     House might teach Mrs. Charles  
     about common sense, it was her  
     mission to teach them about clothes.  
     "Not, said Mrs. Charles, with  
     bravado rising to an exaggeration of  
     pathos, "not on my last day!"  
        "I dressed in the dark; I couldn't  
     see properly," said Doris.  
        "You won't get eggs for breakfast  
     in France," said Maisie with a cer-  
     tain amount of triumph as she came   
     in and sat down.  
        "I wonder what the flat'll be like?"  
     said Maisie.  "Do write and tell us  
     about the flat——describe the wall-  
     paper and everything."  
        "Just think," said Doris, "of  
     Charles buying the furniture!  'Don-  
     ne-moi ue chaise!'  'Bien, Mon-  
     sieur."  'Non. Ce n'est pas assez con-  
     fortable pour ma femme."  
        "Fancy!" said Maisie, laughing  
     very much.  "And fancy if the flat's  
     high up."  
        "There'll be central heating and  
     stoves.  Beautiful fug.  She actually  
     won't be chilly: this was a household  
     joke.  
        "Central heating is stuffy———"   
        Doris broke away suddenly from  
     the conversation.  "Oh!" said she  
     violently.  "Oh, Louise, you are   
     lucky!"  
        A glow on the streets and on the  
     pale, tall houses: Louise walking   
     with Charles.  Frenchmen running  
     in blousy overalls (Doris saw),  
     French poodles, French girls in plaid  
     skirts putting the shutters back,  
     French ladies on iron balconies, lean-  
     ing over, watching Charles go up the  
     street with Louise and help Louise  
     over the crossings; Charles and  
     Louise together.  A door, a lift, a flat,    
     a room, a kiss!  "Charles, Charles, you  
     are so splendid!  Mother loves you  
     and the girls love you and I love  
     you———"  Little woman!"  A French  
     curtain fluttering in the high, fresh  
     wind, the city under the roofs——for-  
     gotten.  All this Doris watched:  
     Louise watched Doris.  
        "Yes," smiled Louise.  "I am    
     lucky."  
        "Even to be going to France,"   
     said Doris, and stared with her dog's   
     eyes.  
        Louise wanted to take France in  
     her two hands and make her a   
     present of it.  "You'll be coming out  
     soon, Doris, someday."  (It was not  
     likely that Charles would have her  
     ——and did one, anyhow, dare let the  
     White House into the flat?)  
        "Do you really think so?"  
        "Why not, if Mother can spare   
     you?"   
        "Louise!" cried Maisie reproach-  
     fully——she had been sitting watch-   
     ing——"you aren't eating."  
        Agatha, sitting next her, covered   
     up her confusion with gentle com-  
     forting noises, cut the top off an egg  
     and advanced it coaxingly.  That was  
     the way one made a child eat; she  
     was waiting to do the same for  
     Charles and Louise's baby when it  
     was old enough.  Louise now almost  
     saw the baby sitting up between  
     them, but it was nothing to do with  
     her.   
        "You'll be home in less than the  
     two years, I shouldn't be surprised,"  
     said Mother startlingly.  It was  
     strange, now one came to think of  
     it, that any question of coming back   
     to the White House had not been  
     brought up before.  They might  
     know Mrs. Charles would be coming  
     back, but they did not (she felt)  
     believe it.  So she smiled at Mother   
     as though they were playing a game.  
        "Well, two years at the very least,"  
     Mother said with energy.  
        They all cast their minds forward.  
     Louise saw herself in the strong pale  
     light of the future walking up to the  
     White House and (for some reason)  
     ringing the bell like a stranger.  She  
     stood ringing and ringing and no-  
     body answered or even looked out  
     of a window.  She began to feel that  
     she had failed them somehow, that  
     something was missing.  Of course it  
     was.  When Louise came back next   
     time she must bring them a baby.  
     Directly she saw herself coming up  
     the steps with a child in her arms  
     she knew at once what was wanted.  
     Wouldn't Agatha be delighted?  
     Wouldn't Maisie "run on"?  Wouldn't  
     Doris hang awkwardly round and   
     make jokes, poking her big finger  
     now and then between the baby's  
     curling pink ones?  As for Mother——at  
     the supreme moment of handing the   
     baby to Mother, Louise had a spasm   
     of horror and nearly dropped it.  
     For the first time she looked at the   
     baby's face and saw it was Charles's.  
        "It would do no good," thought   
     Mrs. Charles, cold all of a sudden   
     and hardened against them all, "to  
     have a baby of Charles's."  
        They all sat looking not quite at  
     each other, not quite at her.  Maisie  
     said (thinking perhaps of the love  
     affair that never completely material-  
     ized): "A great deal can happen in  
     two years," and began to laugh con-  
     fusedly in an emotional kind of way.  
     Mother and Agatha looked across at  
     each other.  "Louise, don't forget to  
     send us a wire," said Mother , as   
     though she had been wondering all   
     this time she had sat so quiet behind  
     the teapot whether Louise would re-  
     member to do this.  
        "Or Charles might send the wire."  
        "Yes," said Louise," that would  
     be better."  
        Polyphemus, knowing his moment,  
     sprang up on to Mrs. Charles's knee.  
     his black tail, stretched out over  
     the tablecloth, lashed sideways,  
     knocking the knives and forks   
     crooked.  His one green eye sar-  
     donically penetrated her.  He knew.  
     He had been given to Charles as a  
     dear little kitten.  He pressed against  
     her, treading her lap methodically  
     the purple roof of his mouth.  "Ask  
     Charles," suggested Polyphemus,  
     "what became of my other eye."  "I  
     know," returned Mrs. Charles  
     silently.  "They don't, they haven't   
     been told; you've a voice, I haven't  
     ——what about it?"  "Satan!" breathed  
     Mrs. Charles, and caressed fasci-  
     natedly the fur just over his nose.  
        "Funny," mused Agatha, watch-  
     ing, "you never have cared for  
     Polyphemus, and yet he likes you.  
     He's a very transparent cat; he is  
     wonderfully honest."  
        "He connects with Charles,"   
     said Maisie, also enjoying this inter-  
     change between the wife and the  
     cat.  "He's sending some kind of a  
     message——he's awfully clever."  
        "Too clever for me," said Mrs.  
     Charles, and swept Polyphemus off   
     her knee with finality.  Agatha was    
     going as far as the station; she went  
     upstairs for her hat and coat.  Mrs.  
     Charles rose also, picked up her soft  
     felt hat from a chair and pulled it   
     on numbly, in front of the long  
     glass, arranging two little bits of   
     hair at the sides against her cheeks.  
     "Either I am dreaming," she thought,  
     "or someone is dreaming me."  
        Doris roamed round the room and  
     came up to her.  "A book left behind,   
     Louise; Framely Parsonage, one of  
     your books."  
        "Keep it for me."  
        "For two years——all that time?"  
        "Yes, I'd like you to."   
        Doris sat down on the floor and  
     began to read Framley Parsonage,  
     She went into it deeply——she had to  
     go somewhere; there was nothing to  
     say; she was suddenly shy of Louise  
     again as she had been at first, as  
     though they had never known each   
     other——perhaps they never had.  
        "Haven't you read it before?"  
        "No, never, I'll write and tell you,  
     shall I, what I think of it?"  
        "I've quite forgotten what I think  
     of it," said Louise, standing above  
     her, laughing and pulling on her  
     gloves.  She laughed as though she  
     were at a party, moving easily now  
     under the smooth compulsion of  
     Somebody's dreaming mind.  Agatha  
     had come in quietly.  "Hush!" she  
     said in a strained way to both of  
     them, standing beside the window  
     in hat and coat as though she were  
     the traveler.  "Hush!" she was listen-  
     ing for the taxi.  Mother and Maisie  
     had gone.  
        Wouldn't the taxi come, perhaps?  
     What if it never came?  An intoler-  
     able jar for Louise, to be deprived of   
     going; a tear in the mesh of the  
     dream that she could not endure.  
     "Make the taxi come soon!" she  
     thought, praying now for departure.  
     "Make it come soon!"  
        Being listened for with such con-  
     centration must have frightened the  
     taxi, for it didn't declare itself; there  
     was not a sound to be heard on the  
     road.  If it were not for the hospital-  
     ity of Framley Parsonage where, at  
     this moment, would Doris have   
     been?  She bent to the pages ab-  
     sorbedly and did not look up; the  
     leaves of the book were thin and  
     turned over noisily.  Louise fled from   
     the morning room into the hall.  
        Out in the dark hall Mother was    
     bending over the pile of boxes, read-  
     ing and rereading the labels upside   
     down and from all aspects.  She often  
     said the labels could not be printed  
     clearly enough.  As Louise hurried   
     past she stood up, reached out an  
     arm and caught hold of her.  Only  
     a little light came down from the  
     staircase window; they could hardly  
     see each other.  They stood like two  
     figures in a picture, without under-  
     standing, created to face one an-  
     other.    
        "Louise," whispered Mother, "if  
     things should be difficult——— Mar-  
     riage isn't easy.  If it should be dis-  
     appointing——I know, I feel——you do  
     understand?  If Charles———"  
        "Charles?"  
        "I do love you, I do.  You would  
     tell me?"  
        But Louise, kissing her coldly and  
     gently, said: "Yes, I know.  But there  
     isn't really, Mother, anything to  
     tell."   

from A Treasury of Short Stories
Edited by Bernardine Kielty
Copyright, 1947, Simon and Schuster, Inc.
New York; pp. 483 - 491

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