"Are you frightened at it?"
"I should be rather frightened to be left behind alone. When I say, I,
of course I mean we."
"Do you?" . . . Heyst remained silent for a while. "The vision of a
world destroyed," he mused aloud. "Would you be sorry for it?"
"I should be sorry for the happy people in it," she said simply.
His gaze travelled up her figure and reached her face, where he seemed
to detect the veiled glow of intelligence, as one gets a glimpse of the
sun through the clouds.
"I should have thought it's they specially who ought to have been
congratulated. Don't you?"
"Oh, yes--I understand what you mean; but there were forty days before
it was all over."
"You seem to be in possession of all the details."
Heyst spoke just to say something rather than to gaze at her in silence.
She was not looking at him.
"Sunday school," she murmured. "I went regularly from the time I
was eight till I was thirteen. We lodged in the north of London, off
Kingsland Road. It wasn't a bad time. Father was earning good money
then. The woman of the house used to pack me off in the afternoon with
her own girls. She was a good woman. Her husband was in the post office.
Sorter or something. Such a quiet man. He used to go off after supper
for night-duty, sometimes. Then one day they had a row, and broke up the
home. I remember I cried when we had to pack up all of a sudden and go
into other lodgings.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237