“See!” Mynors exclaimed, touching her arm.
The huge disc of the moon was rising in the east, and as this mild lamp passed up the sky, the sense of universal quiescence increased. Lovely, Anna had said. It was the loveliest sight her eyes had ever beheld, a panorama of pure beauty transcending all imagined visions. It overwhelmed her, thrilled her to the heart, this revelation of the loveliness of the world. Her thoughts went back to Hanbridge and Bursley and her life there; and all the remembered scenes, bathed in the glow of a new ideal, seemed to lose their pain. It was as if she had never been really unhappy, as if there was no real unhappiness on the whole earth. She perceived that the monotony, the austerity, the melancholy of her existence had been sweet and beautiful of its kind, and she recalled, with a sort of rapture, hours of companionship with the beloved Agnes, when her father was equable and pacific. Nothing was ugly nor mean. Beauty was everywhere, in everything.
In silence they began to descend, perforce walking quickly because of the steep gradient. At the first cottage they saw a little girl in a mobcap playing with two kittens.
“How like Agnes!” Mynors said.
“Yes. I was just thinking so,” Anna answered.
“I thought of her up on the hill,” he continued. “She will miss you, won’t she?”
“I know she cried herself to sleep last night. You mightn’t guess it, but she is extremely sensitive.”
“Not guess it? Why not? I am sure she is. Do you know—I am very fond of your sister. She’s a simply delightful child. And there’s a lot in her, too. She’s so quick and bright, and somehow like a little woman.”
“She’s exactly like a woman sometimes,” Anna agreed. “Sometimes I fancy she’s a great deal older than I am.”
“Older than any of us,” he corrected.
“I’m glad you like her,” Anna said, content. “She thinks all the world of you.” And she added: “My word, wouldn’t she be vexed if she knew I had told you that!”
This appreciation of Agnes brought them into closer intimacy, and they talked the more easily of other things.
“It will freeze tonight,” Mynors said; and then, suddenly looking at her in the twilight: “You are feeling chill.”
“Oh, no!” she protested.
“But you are. Put this muffler round your neck.” He took a muffler from his pocket.
“Oh, no, really! You will need it yourself.” She drew a little away from him, as if to avoid the muffler.
“Please take it.”
She did so, and thanked him, tying it loosely and untidily round her throat. That feeling of the untidiness of the muffler, of its being something strange to her skin, something with the rough virtue of masculinity, which no one could detect in the gloom, was in itself pleasant.
“I wager Mrs. Sutton has a good fire burning when we get in,” he said.
She thought with joyous anticipation of the warm, bright, sitting-room, the supper, and the vivacious good-natured conversation. Though the walk was nearly at an end, other delights were in store. Of the holiday, thirteen complete days yet remained, each to be as happy as the one now closing. It was an age! At last they entered the human cosiness of the village. As they walked up the steps of their lodging and he opened the door for her, she quickly drew off the muffler and returned it to him with a word of thanks.
On Monday morning, when Beatrice and Anna came downstairs, they found the breakfast odorously cooling on the table, and nobody in the room.
“Where are they all, I wonder. Any letters?” Beatrice said.
“There’s your mother, out on the front—and Mr. Mynors too.”
Beatrice threw up the window, and called: “Come along, Henry; come along, mother. Everything’s going cold.”
“Is it?” Mynors cheerfully replied. “Come out here, both of you, and begin the day properly with a dose of ozone.”
“I loathe cold bacon,” said Beatrice, glancing at the table, and they went out into the road, where Mrs. Sutton kissed them with as much fervour as if they had arrived from a long journey.
“You look pale, Anna,” she remarked.
“Do I?” said Anna, “I don’t feel pale.”
“It’s that long walk last night,” Beatrice put in. “Henry always goes too far.”
“I don’t—” Anna began; but at that moment Mr. Sutton, lumbering and ponderous, joined the party.
“Henry,” he said, without greeting anyone, “hast noticed those half-finished houses down the road yonder by the Falcon? I’ve been having a chat with Kelly, and he tells me the fellow that was building them has gone bankrupt, and they’re at a standstill. The Receiver wants to sell ’em. In fact Kelly says they’re going cheap. I believe they’d be a good spec.”
“Eh, dear!” Mrs. Sutton interrupted him. “Father, I wish you would leave your specs alone when you’re on your holiday.”
“Now, missis!” he affectionately protested, and continued: “They’re fairly well built, seemingly, and the rafters are on the roof. Anna,” he turned to her quickly, as if counting on her sympathy, “you must come with me and look at ’em after
