mothers. Yet if Veronica had
had a child--"

"You needn't be so sorry for Veronica."

"I'm not. It's you I'm sorriest for. You've had nothing. From beginning
to end you had nothing.

"I might at least have seen that you had it in the beginning."

"_You_, Mummy?"

"Yes. Me. You _shall_ have it now. Unless you want to leave me."

"I wouldn't leave you for the world, Mummy ducky. Only you must let me
work always and all the time."

"Let you? I'll let you do what you like, my dear."

"You always have let me, haven't you?"

"It was the least I could do."

"Poor Mummy, did you think you had to make up because you cared for them
more than me?"

"I wonder," said Frances, thoughtfully, "if I did."

"Of course. Of course you did. Who wouldn't?"

"I never meant you to know it, Dorothy."

"Of course I knew it. I must have known it ever since Michael was born.
I knew you couldn't help it. You had to. Even when I was a tiresome kid
I knew you had to. It was natural."

"Natural or unnatural, many girls have hated their mothers for less.
You've been very big and generous.

"Perhaps--if you'd been little and weak--but you were always such an
independent thing. I used to think you didn't want me."

"I wanted you a lot more than you thought. But, you see, I've learned to
do without."

She thought: "It's better she should have it straight."

"If you'd think less about me, Mother," she said, "and more about
Father--"

"Father?"

"Yes. Father isn't independent--though he looks it. He wants you
awfully. He always has wanted you. And he hasn't learned to do without."

"Where is he?"

"He's sitting out there in the garden, all by himself, in the dark,
under the tree."

Frances went to him there.

"I wondered whether you would come to me," he said.

"I was doing something for Michael."

"Is it done?"

"Yes. It's done."

* * * * *

Five months passed. It was November now.

In the lane by the side door, Anthony was waiting in his car. Rain was
falling, hanging from the trees and falling. Every now and then he
looked at his watch.

He had still a quarter of an hour before he need start. But he was not
going back into the house. They were all in there saying good-bye to
John: old Mrs. Fleming, and Louie and Emmeline and Edith. And Maurice.
And his brother Bartie.

The door in the garden wall opened and they came out: the four women in
black--the black they still wore for