Chater's stormy eyes, my Mary
stooped over David.
"David!" The calm ring of the tones he had learned to obey checked his
clamour, his plunging kicks. She stooped; kissed him. "Be good as
gold," she commanded. "Promise."
"Good as gold--yes--p'omise," David choked.
Angela was given, and gave, the magic formula. Mary stepped back.
Susan slammed the door.
With quivering lips my Mary walked to the cab.
"Drive down the street," she choked; lay back against the cushions;
gave herself to shaking sobs.
V.
Her George met her a very few yards down the street. He gave an order
to the cabman and sat beside her.
It was not long before her grief was hushed. She dried her eyes;
nestled against this wonderful fellow who, as love had now constituted
her world, was the solace against every trouble that could come to
her, the shield against any power that might arise to do her hurt.
They debated the position and found it desperate; discussed the
immediate future to discover it threatening. Yet the gloom was
irradiated by the glowing light of the prospective future; the
rumbling of present fears was lost in the tinkling music of their
voices, striking notes from love.
The cab twisted this way and that; clattered over Battersea Bridge,
down the Park, to the right past the Free Library, and so into Meath
Street and to the clean little house of the landlady whom George knew.
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