he sigh, the sitting by
the window. Three o'clock on a December afternoon; the rain drizzling;
one light low in the skylight of a drapery emporium; another high in a
servant's bedroom--this one goes out. That gives her nothing to look at.
A moment's blankness--then, what are you thinking? (Let me peep across
at her opposite; she's asleep or pretending it; so what would she think
about sitting at the window at three o'clock in the afternoon? Health,
money, hills, her God?) Yes, sitting on the very edge of the chair
looking over the roofs of Eastbourne, Minnie Marsh prays to God. That's
all very well; and she may rub the pane too, as though to see God
better; but what God does she see? Who's the God of Minnie Marsh, the
God of the back streets of Eastbourne, the God of three o'clock in the
afternoon? I, too, see roofs, I see sky; but, oh, dear--this seeing of
Gods! More like President Kruger than Prince Albert--that's the best I
can do for him; and I see him on a chair, in a black frock-coat, not so
very high up either; I can manage a cloud or two for him to sit on; and
then his hand trailing in the cloud holds a rod, a truncheon is
it?--black, thick, thorned--a brutal old bully--Minnie's God! Did he
send the itch and the patch and the twitch? Is that why she prays? What
she rubs on the window is the stain of sin. Oh, she committed some
crime!

I have my choice of crimes. The woods flit and fly--in summer there are
bluebells; in the opening there, when Spring comes, primroses. A
parting, was it, twenty years ago? Vows broken? Not Minnie's!... She
was faithful. How she nursed her mother! All her savings on the
tombstone--wreaths under glass--daffodils in jars. But I'm off the
track. A crime.... They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her
secret--her sex, they'd say--the scientific people. But what flummery to
saddle _her_ with sex! No--more like this. Passing down the streets of
Croydon twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper's
window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers--past
six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass
swing door. It's sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons. She pauses,
pulls this, fingers that with the raised roses on it--no need to choose,
no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises. "We don't shut till
seven," and then it _is_ seven. She runs, she rushes, home she reaches,
but too late. Neighbours--the doctor--baby broth