II

That morning, by way of adventure, I was to walk down to the village.

(Joanna and I always called it the village, although technically we were in-correct, and Lymstock would have been annoyed to hear us.)The sun was shining, the air was cool and crisp with the sweetness ofspring in it. I assembled my sticks and started off, firmly refusing to per-mit Joanna to accompany me.

“No,” I said, “I will not have a guardian angel teetering along beside meand uttering encouraging chirrups. A man travels fastest who travelsalone, remember. I have much business to transact. I shall go to Galbraith,Galbraith and Symmington, and sign that transfer of shares, I shall call inat the baker’s and complain about the currant loaf, and I shall return thatbook we borrowed. I have to go to the bank, too. Let me away, woman, themorning is all too short.”

It was arranged that Joanna should pick me up with the car and driveme back up the hill in time for lunch.

“That ought to give you time to pass the time of day with everyone inLymstock.”

“I have no doubt,” I said, “that I shall have seen anybody who is any-body by then.”

For morning in the High Street was a kind of rendezvous for shoppers,when news was exchanged.

I did not, after all, walk down to the town unaccompanied. I had goneabout two hundred yards, when I heard a bicycle bell behind me, then ascrunching of brakes, and then Megan Hunter more or less fell off her ma-chine at my feet.

“Hallo,” she said breathlessly as she rose and dusted herself off.

I rather liked Megan and always felt oddly sorry for her.

She was Symmington the lawyer’s stepdaughter, Mrs. Symmington’sdaughter by a first marriage. Nobody talked much about Mr. (or Captain)Hunter, and I gathered that he was considered best forgotten. He was re-ported to have treated Mrs. Symmington very badly. She had divorcedhim a year or two after the marriage. She was a woman with means of herown and had settled down with her little daughter in Lymstock “to forget,”

and had eventually married the only eligible bachelor in the place,Richard Symmington. There were two boys of the second marriage towhom their parents were devoted, and I fancied that Megan sometimesfelt odd man out in the establishment. She certainly did not resemble hermother, who was a small anaemic woman, fadedly pretty, who talked in athin melancholy voice of servant difficulties and her health.

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty,she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidybrown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charm-ing one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usu-ally had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

She looked, I decided this morning, much more like a horse than a hu-man being. In fact she would have been a very nice horse with a littlegrooming.

She spoke, as usual, in a kind of breathless rush.

“I’ve been up to the farm—you know, Lasher’s—to see if they’d got anyduck’s eggs. They’ve got an awfully nice lot of little pigs. Sweet! Do you likepigs? I even like the smell.”

“Well-kept pigs shouldn’t smell,” I said.

“Shouldn’t they? They all do round here. Are you walking down to thetown? I saw you were alone, so I thought I’d stop and walk with you, only Istopped rather suddenly.”

“You’ve torn your stocking,” I said.

Megan looked rather ruefully at her right leg.

“So I have. But it’s got two holes already, so it doesn’t matter very much,does it?”

“Don’t you ever mend your stockings, Megan?”

“Rather. When Mummy catches me. But she doesn’t notice awfully whatI do—so it’s lucky in a way, isn’t it?”

“You don’t seem to realize you’re grown up,” I said.

“You mean I ought to be more like your sister? All dolled up?”

I rather resented this description of Joanna.

“She looks clean and tidy and pleasing to the eye,” I said.

“She’s awfully pretty,” said Megan. “She isn’t a bit like you, is she? Whynot?”

“Brothers and sisters aren’t always alike.”

“No. Of course. I’m not very like Brian or Colin. And Brian and Colinaren’t like each other.” She paused and said, “It’s very rum, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

Megan replied briefly: “Families.”

I said thoughtfully, “I suppose they are.”

I wondered just what was passing in her mind. We walked on in silencefor a moment or two, then Megan said in a rather shy voice:

“You fly, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s how you got hurt?”

“Yes, I crashed.”

Megan said:

“Nobody down here flies.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose not. Would you like to fly, Megan?”

“Me?” Megan seemed surprised. “Goodness, no. I should be sick. I’m sickin a train even.”

She paused, and then asked with that directness which only a child usu-ally displays:

“Will you get all right and be able to fly again, or will you always be a bitof a crock?”

“My doctor says I shall be quite all right.”

“Yes, but is he the kind of man who tells lies?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “In fact, I’m quite sure of it. I trust him.”

“That’s all right then. But a lot of people do tell lies.”

I accepted this undeniable statement of fact in silence.

Megan said in a detached judicial kind of way:

“I’m glad. I was afraid you looked bad tempered because you werecrocked up for life—but if it’s just natural, it’s different.”

“I’m not bad tempered,” I said coldly.

“Well, irritable, then.”

“I’m irritable because I’m in a hurry to get fit again—and these thingscan’t be hurried.”

“Then why fuss?”

I began to laugh.

“My dear girl, aren’t you ever in a hurry for things to happen?”

Megan considered the question. She said:

“No. Why should I be? There’s nothing to be in a hurry about. Nothingever happens.”

I was struck by something forlorn in the words. I said gently: “What doyou do with yourself down here?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“What is there to do?”

“Haven’t you got any hobbies? Do you play games? Have you got friendsround about?”

“I’m stupid at games. And I don’t like them much. There aren’t manygirls round here, and the ones there are I don’t like. They think I’m awful.”

“Nonsense. Why should they?”

Megan shook her head.

“Didn’t you go to school at all?”

“Yes, I came back a year ago.”

“Did you enjoy school?”

“It wasn’t bad. They taught you things in an awfully silly way, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well—just bits and pieces. Chopping and changing from one thing tothe other. It was a cheap school, you know, and the teachers weren’t verygood. They could never answer questions properly.”

“Very few teachers can,” I said.

“Why not? They ought to.”

I agreed.

“Of course I’m pretty stupid,” said Megan. “And such a lot of things seemto me such rot. History, for instance. Why, it’s quite different out of differ-ent books!”

“That is its real interest,” I said.

“And grammar,” went on Megan. “And silly compositions. And all theblathering stuff Shelley wrote, twittering on about skylarks, andWordsworth going all potty over some silly daffodils. And Shakespeare.”

“What’s wrong with Shakespeare?” I inquired with interest.

“Twisting himself up to say things in such a difficult way that you can’tget at what he means. Still, I like some Shakespeare.”

“He would be gratified to know that, I’m sure,” I said.

Megan suspected no sarcasm. She said, her face lighting up:

“I like Goneril and Regan, for instance.”

“Why these two?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’re satisfactory, somehow. Why do you thinkthey were like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like they were. I mean something must have made them like that?”

For the first time I wondered. I had always accepted Lear’s elder daugh-ters as two nasty bits of goods and had let it go at that. But Megan’s de-mand for a first cause interested me.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Oh, it doesn’t really matter. I just wondered. Anyway, it’s only EnglishLiterature, isn’t it?”

“Quite, quite. Wasn’t there any subject you enjoyed?”

“Only Maths.”

“Maths?” I said, rather surprised.

Megan’s face had lit up.

“I loved Maths. But it wasn’t awfully well taught. I’d like to be taughtMaths really well. It’s heavenly. I think there’s something heavenly aboutnumbers, anyway, don’t you?”

“I’ve never felt it,” I said truthfully.

We were now entering the High Street. Megan said sharply:

“Here’s Miss Griffith. Hateful woman.”

“Don’t you like her?”

“I loathe her. She’s always at me to join her foul Guides. I hate Guides.

Why dress yourself up and go about in clumps, and put badges on yourselffor something you haven’t really learnt to do properly? I think it’s all rot.”

On the whole, I rather agreed with Megan. But Miss Griffith had descen-ded on us before I could voice my assent.

The doctor’s sister, who rejoiced in the singularly inappropriate name ofAimée, had all the positive assurance that her brother lacked. She was ahandsome woman in a masculine weather-beaten way, with a deep heartyvoice.

“Hallo, you two,” she bayed at us. “Gorgeous morning, isn’t it? Megan,you’re just the person I wanted to see. I want some help addressing envel-opes for the Conservative Association.”

Megan muttered something elusive, propped up her bicycle against thekerb and dived in a purposeful way into the International Stores.

“Extraordinary child,” said Miss Griffith, looking after her. “Bone lazy.

Spends her time mooning about. Must be a great trial to poor Mrs. Sym-mington. I know her mother’s tried more than once to get her to take upsomething—shorthand-typing, you know, or cookery, or keeping Angorarabbits. She needs an interest in life.”

I thought that was probably true, but felt that in Megan’s place I shouldhave withstood firmly any of Aimée Griffith’s suggestions for the simplereason that her aggressive personality would have put my back up.

“I don’t believe in idleness,” went on Miss Griffith. “And certainly not foryoung people. It’s not as though Megan was pretty or attractive or any-thing like that. Sometimes I think the girl’s half-witted. A great disappoint-ment to her mother. The father, you know,” she lowered her voice slightly,“was definitely a wrong ’un. Afraid the child takes after him. Painful forher mother. Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a world, that’s what I say.”

“Fortunately,” I responded.

Aimée Griffith gave a “jolly” laugh.

“Yes, it wouldn’t do if we were all made to one pattern. But I don’t like tosee anyone not getting all they can out of life. I enjoy life myself and Iwant everyone to enjoy it too. People say to me you must be bored todeath living down there in the country all the year round. Not a bit of it, Isay. I’m always busy, always happy! There’s always something going on inthe country. My time’s taken up, what with my Guides, and the Instituteand various committees—to say nothing of looking after Owen.”

At this minute, Miss Griffith saw an acquaintance on the other side ofthe street, and uttering a bay of recognition she leaped across the road,leaving me free to pursue my course to the bank.

I always found Miss Griffith rather overwhelming, though I admired herenergy and vitality, and it was pleasant to see the beaming contentmentwith her lot in life which she always displayed, and which was a pleasantcontrast to the subdued complaining murmurs of so many women.

My business at the bank transacted satisfactorily, I went on to the officesof Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington. I don’t know if therewere any Galbraiths extant. I never saw any. I was shown into RichardSymmington’s inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-es-tablished legal firm.

Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, Wil-liam Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere ofdecorous county families and legitimate long-established business.

Studying Mr. Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought,it occurred to me that if Mrs. Symmington had encountered disaster in herfirst marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Sym-mington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who wouldnever give his wife a moment’s anxiety. A long neck with a pronouncedAdam’s apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindlyman, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulsesmadly racing.

Presently Mr. Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly,delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settledthe matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so:

“I walked down the hill with your stepdaughter.”

For a moment Mr. Symmington looked as though he did not know whohis stepdaughter was, then he smiled.

“Oh yes, of course, Megan. She—er—has been back from school sometime. We’re thinking about finding her something to do—yes, to do. But ofcourse she’s very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes,so they tell me.”

I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writingslowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged wo-man with frizzy hair and pinze-nez who was typing with some speed anddash.

If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passagesbetween her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely.

I went into the baker’s and said my piece about the currant loaf. It wasreceived with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, anda new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacement—“fresh from theoven this minute”— as its indecent heat pressed against my chest pro-claimed to be no less than truth.

I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to seeJoanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awk-ward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf.

But there was no sign of Joanna as yet.

Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise.

Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There isreally no other word for it.

The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely-shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming toswim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breathtaking girl!

In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the cur-rant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost mystick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell my-self.

It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began tostammer:

“Th-thanks awfully, I’m f-f-frightfully sorry.”

She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with thestick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully:

“Don’t mention it. No trouble, I assure you,” and the magic died com-pletely before the flat, competent voice.

A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more.

I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had givenHelen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl couldtrouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that themoment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been.

I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she openedher mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleo-patra had cast her spell anew.

Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her ar-rival. She asked if there was anything the matter.

“Nothing,” I said, pulling myself together. “I was reflecting on Helen ofTroy and others.”

“What a funny place to do it,” said Joanna. “You looked most odd, stand-ing there clasping currant bread to your breast with your mouth wideopen.”

“I’ve had a shock,” I said. “I have been transplanted to Ilium and backagain.”

“Do you know who that is?” I added, indicating a retreating back thatwas swimming gracefully away.

Peering after the girl Joanna said that it was the Symmingtons’ nurserygoverness.

“Is that what struck you all of a heap?” she asked. “She’s good-looking,but a bit of a wet fish.”

“I know,” I said. “Just a nice kind girl. And I’d been thinking her Aphrod-ite.”

Joanna opened the door of the car and I got in.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said. “Some people have lots of looks and abso-lutely no S.A. That girl has. It seems such a pity.”

I said that if she was a nursery governess it was probably just as well.