The grime of years removed, the figure of the rider on the horse was plainly discernible: a grinning skeleton with gleaming bones.
Mrs Dane Calthrop's voice, deep and sonorous, spoke behind me:
'Revelation, Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him…'
We were silent for a moment or two, and then Mrs Dane Calthrop, who was not one to be afraid of anticlimax, said:
'So that's that,' in the tone of one who puts something in the wastepaper basket.
'I must go now,' she added. 'Mothers' Meeting.'
She paused in the doorway, nodded at Ginger, and said unexpectedly:
'You'll make a good mother,'
For some reason Ginger blushed crimson,
'Ginger,' I said, 'will you?'
'Will I what? Make a good mother?'
'You know what I mean.'
'Perhaps… but I'd prefer a firm offer.'
I made her a firm offer.
After an interlude, Ginger demanded:
'Are you quite sure you don't want to marry that Hermia creature?'
'Good Lord!' I said. 'I quite forgot.'
I took a letter from my pocket.
'This came three days ago, asking me if I'd come to the Old Vic with her to see Love's Labour's Lost.'
Ginger took the letter out of my hand and tore it up.
'If you want to go to the Old Vic in the future,' she said firmly, 'you'll go with me.'
