Miss Candy shook her head. The thought of old age, which seldom left her mind, was like a cold ghost lurking among the butterflies of her philosophy.

‘You take life too seriously. My advice to you is – take the cash in hand and blow everything else or whatever it is the poet-wallah says.’

‘I can’t.’

But on the following Saturday morning, when she climbed the hill from the Vale among the quivering blue and green shades of a summer day, on the first stage of her journey to France, she could not help feeling cheerful.

She carried one small suit case and a heavy rucksack on her back. This latter gave her a burdened yet pilgrimish and adventurous feeling which was very pleasant, and she enjoyed the look of her worn heavy brogues; they had gone with her through many tangled thickets and over cushiony turf and she was fond of them.

She found that she could easily, too easily, forget to worry about money, Harry, Juan, the cottage and Miss Tessitt. All these were washed away by a wave of delightful excitement and loneliness. ‘I was lonely,’ says someone; and one feels pity. ‘I was alone,’ says another, in such a tone of happiness calmly remembered that one feels envy. Sophia’s solitude was of the last kind.

The cottage put out one last reminder to her as she was leaving the Heath for the road down to the Tube.

Mrs Barker, a tiny figure, suddenly emerged from behind the thick trunk of a chestnut tree, seeming blacker and smaller than ever in the glowing green cave made by the branches and the rich fresh grass.

She appeared as usual, about to cry; but when she saw Sophia she gave the watery, amazed, grateful smile which she saved for the three young Gardens.

Oh lord, thought Sophia, wondering if she had any small change. She remembered that it was Saturday; Mrs Barker must be on her way to smear the cottage doorstep. She was swinging a battered bucket.

‘ ’Ullo, dear.’

‘Hullo, Mrs Barker. You just off to do the step?’

‘That’s right, dear. You goin’ away, dear?’

‘Yes, for a week to France. It’s all right,’ she added hastily. ‘My eldest brother will be there on Wednesday and Saturday to give you your tea and everything.’

Mrs Barker’s face, which had begun to express bottomless despair mingled with indignation, became more peaceful.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re ’avin’ a ’oliday, dear. That’s right. You enjoy yerself. One day you’ll be gettin’ married and then you won’t be able to go off for holidays and enjoy yerself. It ain’t the same,’ said Mrs Barker broodingly, ‘when a gel’s married.’

‘But I don’t particularly want to get married, thanks. At least not yet,’ she added with her scrupulous honesty.

‘Don’t yer, dear?’ shrilled Mrs Barker in the liveliest surprise and much disapproval. ‘Not get married? Aow, every gel ought to get married.’

Sophia was tempted to say, ‘Why?’ but refrained. It was no use. Mrs Barker was but Aunt Grace writ small, so to speak. Neither, it appeared, had derived benefit from the married state, and both realized it, yet both loyally upheld the Juggernaut which had crushed them. It was confoundedly irritating and illogical, but there was no sense in arguing with them. In doing so, energy was used which might be more profitably employed.