“If you’d had more time, I shouldn’t have found out,” Ruth said, and the anxious look, which troubled Hannah, returned to her face. “And I suppose it isn’t true about your cottage and the owls.”
“Every word of it,” Hannah said. “And the old lady and the wigs are true, but what was the good of them without the burglar? You wanted a burglar and I had to give you a nice one.”
“But have you ever known a nasty one?”
“No, but I can make one up.”
Ruth smiled feebly. “Ethel would think it was dreadful.”
“I wouldn’t have told it to Ethel,” Hannah said quickly, and Ruth’s smile broadened.
“She’d think it was lying.”
“Not lying. Fiction,” Hannah said.
“Yes, fiction,” Ruth agreed willingly. “But how,” she cried, “am I going to know when it really happened and when it didn’t?”
“Ah, that’s the fun of it. You’ve got to find out and, next time, I shall be more careful.”
“And did you break the window with your foot?”
“Yes, that was true.”
“And you can’t tell me about that?”
“You wouldn’t like it, though it had its funny side, I must admit. I’m afraid you wouldn’t see it. You’re not very good at laughing.”
“No. But I’m glad it’s true about the cottage,” she said contentedly.
“Are you?” Hannah asked rather wearily, and she sank back in her chair and shut her eyes again.
Ruth felt a little uneasy. The quality of Miss Mole’s relaxation had changed. She was no longer a lady of leisure, but one who was tired, and, perhaps, unhappy, and Ruth had a peep through another door which led into the places where Miss Mole’s spirit had wandered.
She cleared her throat and said in a small voice, “Miss Mole, are you all right?”
“I’m doing my best,” Hannah said, smiling, but keeping her eyes shut.
“I mean, do you feel ill, or something?”
“I don’t feel ill, but I do feel something.”
“A pain?”
“A kind of pain.”
“Well, would you like anything?”
“Heaps of things,” Hannah said, and now she disclosed her eyes which were bright and merry. “I want a small fortune to begin with. Fetch me that, if you can. If you can’t, you’d better go to bed.”
“Not yet. Let’s talk about it. If you had it, what would you do?”
“Pack my box. No offence meant, but wouldn’t you do it yourself?”
“I suppose so,” Ruth said, trying to be reasonable and not hurt.
“I’d pack my box, but I’d leave you my little ship, for remembrance, and a good home. I should want a good home for it. It would be an awkward thing to take into the Arabian desert, for instance. You want ships of the desert there, not bottled ones. However, I’m not sure that I should go to Arabia. I’ve never been able to eat dates. London first, and new clothes of the very best cut and quality, and while they’re being made, for I’m not going to have anything off a peg, I’ll go into travel agencies and ask questions of young men who don’t know the answers.”
“How do you know they don’t?” Ruth asked sharply.
“Because I’ve tried them. Many an afternoon I’ve spent, leaning over one of those counters. You get all the uncertainty of foreign travel without the expense. But I won’t make things too difficult for them at first. I’m going to Spain. I’ve never been there though it’s full of my own castles.”
“And of mine,” said Ruth.
“Yes, I wonder there’s any room left in the place. Let’s go and see. Will you come with me?”
Ruth nodded. “I’d love to.”
“Good,” said Miss Mole. “I can easily afford it. And after that, where shall we go? Not Italy. Too much culture and too many spinsters like myself. We might pick up a little boat at Marseilles and go jogging down the Mediterranean. And we wouldn’t come back until we wanted to, and we’d begun to wish we hadn’t so much time on our hands. But we’d see South America first.”
The loud ringing of the front door bell shattered the visions they were sharing of Creole beauties, vast mountain ranges, immense rivers and impassable jungles.
“There!” Ruth exclaimed. “Somebody’s come to spoil it!”
“Only the postman,” Hannah said airily, “with a registered letter from my lawyers, about the fortune.”
There was the chance that something exciting was going to happen with every knock or ring, and though few people would have applied the adjective to Mr. Blenkinsop, who was standing on the doorstep, Hannah felt laughter rising in her at the sight of him.
“I call this very kind,” she said brightly. “Do come in.”
Raising his hat, Mr. Blenkinsop asked if Mr. Corder was at home.
“Mr. Corder?” Hannah said, pretending to be disappointed. “No, he’s out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Blenkinsop, turning to go.
“Wait a bit!” Hannah cried. “I haven’t seen you since I carried up your dinner. But I’ve heard about you. Come in, and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”
“Thank you, but I wanted to see Mr. Corder. I’ll come another day.”
“You won’t find him in on a Wednesday. It’s the weeknight service.”
“Stupid of me,” Mr. Blenkinsop muttered.
“Mr. Corder will consider it a sad lapse of memory. I don’t think I’ll tell him you came.”
“It’s a matter of indifference to me,” he said.
“Yes, that’s what he’ll realize, I’m afraid. I’ve looked for you every Sunday, Mr. Blenkinsop.”
“I don’t quite see why you should trouble.”
“I have a tenderness for Mr. Corder’s feelings.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Blenkinsop, “so you’ve settled down.”
“You can put it that way if you like. I wish you’d come in, but it’s a nice night, after the rain,” she said, looking skyward. “What bright stars!”
“Yes, very bright.”
“But it’s cold,” said Miss Mole.
“Don’t let me keep you,” said he, but he did not move, and Hannah went on conversationally. “Yes, it’s cold, but I suppose we ought to call it seasonable. It’s funny about that word. It’s only cold, never hot, weather that’s seasonable. Now why? I find words very fascinating.”
“I’m afraid,” Mr. Blenkinsop said stiffly, “I mustn’t stay
