I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my afternoon, visiting with Joanna and Grace and the children, gossiping, playing games, absorbing the warmth of the stove in the sitting room.

This was a home, I thought. Outside the day was gray, the wind giving way to a steady rain; inside all was bright and cheerful. The Millburns hadn’t much in the way of money, but they had resourcefulness, and goodness in their hearts.

I wanted this with all my might. A place to call my own, with a fire and a cup of tea, my daughter within reach. When I’d been a girl, my mother and I hadn’t had much more than a few sticks of furniture in our tiny lodgings and little to eat, but we’d had each other. We’d also had friends who’d drop by for a chat and incidentally bring us a loaf of bread, or the end of a joint from their previous night’s supper. The whole street had made sure Mum and I were all right, especially after my dad had dropped off his perch.

So much generosity among those who had little to share. I compared this with Mrs. Bywater’s parsimony and her insistence that Cynthia marry so she’d be out from underfoot.

A large and comfortable mansion was all very well, I decided with some smugness, but I preferred a house like this, warm and filled with friends and my daughter.

When Mr. Millburn returned home as we finished tea, my mind substituted Daniel breezing in after a hard day chasing criminals, his laughter lighting the room. He’d buss me on the cheek and swing Grace into his arms, asking me what riches I’d cooked them all for supper. James would be there too, the tall young man with a smile like sunshine.

The vision unnerved me so much it shattered into fragments, leaving Mr. Millburn puzzled that I stared so hard at him.

Time for me to go. I departed with the greatest reluctance, leaving my daughter and this insular warmth for the cold darkness of everyday life.

*   *   *

I had promised to meet Mrs. Compton, so I took an omnibus to Gray’s Inn Road, having had enough of underground trains. I alighted in a pelting rain and made my way to the kitchen door of the Foundling Hospital.

A delivery van stood before it, Hansen’s Produce emblazoned in red and blue on its black side. I tramped down the short flight of stairs and opened the door, happy to find it still unlocked. Above the noise of the bustling scullery and servants’ hall beyond, I heard the unmistakable and affable laugh of Daniel McAdam.

I shook rain from my coat as I walked toward the servants’ hall, annoyed with the man. If I’d known Daniel had taken my advice to enter the Hospital with the excuse of making deliveries, it might have saved me some trouble.