I give in, thought Sophia. I ought to be grateful that the boys still love me, anyway. For there was no doubt that they did, with their ludicrous bottles of scent and their relyings upon her when anything went wrong and their pleasure in her company, even when she had been disapproving and elder-sisterly and boring. It was something that they loved her, even if she had failed in her duty and let them begin on the road to ruin.

When she got to the fire station where Toby’s father lived, she became interested in the novelty of her situation, and in trying to get a glimpse of the fire engine as she climbed the iron steps leading to the firemen’s quarters, and her unhappiness and worry went away into the back of her mind.

The men were doing something to the fire engine in its garage immediately below the stairway, so the doors were open, and she had a good stare at its gallant scarlet and glitter. A fire engine is a terrifying, powerful object. It is more like a dragon than any other contemporary machine, and there comes from it a heartening emanation of peril and bravery. It is a fitting object with which to quell the awful power of Fire; and the sight of it made her feel ashamed of her fear of what life might bring, and her unhappiness.

Heartened by the fire engine, she knocked at the third door along the row at the top; and it was at once opened by Toby looking properly subdued. She gave a vehement wink, however, and muttered:

‘Isn’t it awful! You are a dear to come. Do come in. Mum’s here.’

Half past three struck somewhere.

Sophia’s first impression of Mrs Kellett’s parlour was that she had stepped inside the fire engine. It was very small, and everything seemed to be bright red and glittering, or green.

Some things glowed, the moss-green carpet, the red plush chairs, the emerald-green tablecloth; and some glittered, the mantel mirror and the fire irons and numerous little boxes and frames; and some had a frosty white glimmer, the lace curtains draped at the windows and a tea cloth put half across the table, and Mrs Kellett’s own white apron. Every object shone with cleanliness. There was a fresh smell of furniture polish and the pleasant but indefinable one of clean linen. Sophia thought of the state into which Miss Tessitt’s ailments and her own worries had allowed the cottage to sink, and she felt ashamed for the second time.

‘Mum, this is Sophia.’

‘Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

‘It’s very nice of you to let me come …’ mumbled Sophia. She had never seen a more intimidating woman than Mrs Kellett. She looked like one’s idea of a Roman goddess. She was nearly six feet tall, and very big, and her handsome head was crowned with more fair hair than Sophia had thought existed in this niggardly life. It was coiled, looped, twisted, coroneted, and plaited in an inconceivably intricate device, and her large severe grey eyes looked at one with awesome honesty and dignity. Here was a woman who looked as though she knew what she wanted and had always known, who looked chaste, strong, simple. Sophia was awed. She felt herself to be in the presence of a natural force like the Niagara Falls. She forgot to be nervous about the letter. She was afraid of Mrs Kellett, but too interested in her to be very afraid.