They moved towards the door.

Two warm kisses on her lips, the pressure of Francis’s hands on her shoulders, a warm hug from Harry, wavings, shouts, laughter – ‘Promise you’ll stay till the post comes, Sophia!’ and her own reply, ‘I will, but heaven knows why’ – they had gone.

She turned back into the cottage.

It was silent. The sound of the engine died away (going much too fast, she thought) and she closed the door.

There was the tick of the clock for company, the silent glowing presences of the roses and carnations and the gracious figure of Nydia, bowered among her flowers. Sophia leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and stared down into the fireless grate, and was surprised that the tears did not come.

After all, she had only lost some of their time and company, not their love. They all three cared as much for one another as ever; more, perhaps, because they had been through this battle together, and come out of it knowing one another better, and more able to make allowances. She would see them often, very often … and it would certainly be pleasant to have a little time for writing poetry sometimes in the evenings, for reading and dreaming and walks. And she was not like Uncle Preston after all; Harry had said that of course she wasn’t. It was a rotten thing to say, and she must forgive him. She had at least avoided that danger.

A letter suddenly landed on the mat; and she started. The post was early tonight; she heard the postman’s steps receding down the Vale, and Jimmy Barrell dutifully barking at him.

She picked up the letter.

It was addressed to her, in Harry’s writing.

She opened it, with shaking knees and a dry mouth, and unfolded a cheque for two hundred pounds made out to herself and signed by Harry. And there was a little note saying that this was for her with his love, to do just as she liked with.

She had not lifted her eyes from it when the telephone bell rang. Aunt Grace … Aunt Maxine … Uncle Preston … it must be one of the old fools.

But Francis’s voice hailed her—

‘Hullo, my sweet. Has the post come yet?’

‘Oh Francis, I should think it has! It’s lovely … I’ve never dreamed of having so much money. Where’s Harry … Where are you? Can I speak to him? Surely you aren’t there yet! You must have done eighty the whole way …’

‘No, we’re in Tottenham Court road. I’m speaking from a call box. The fact is, that ass Juan ran into something. There’s being a bit of a fuss. Quite a crowd. Can you hear it? I’ll open the door.’

In the pause she heard a very different sound from the one she expected. It came from outside her own front door.

It was the thrilling and mysterious sound of the first flight of autumn leaves, driven by the rising wind over the pavements. Adventure, lonely places, love, all the power and promise of the huge earth seemed to open in front of her as she listened, and realized that she had perhaps fifty years in which to follow the promise of that sound.