She knew their ages.  Colin was only seven.  Eliot, the clever one, was very big; he was fifteen.  Jerrold was thirteen.

She heard Jerrold’s father answering in his quiet voice.

“You needn’t worry.  Jerry’ll look after Anne all right.”

“And Adeline.”

“Oh yes, of course, Adeline.” (Only somehow he made it sound as if she wouldn’t.)

Adeline was Mrs. Fielding.  Jerrold’s mother.

Anne wanted to get away from the quiet, serious men and play with Jerrold; but their idea seemed to be that it was too soon.  Too soon after the funeral.  It would be all right to go quietly and look at the goldfish; but no, not to play.  When she thought of her dead mother she was afraid to tell them that she didn’t want to go and look at the goldfish.  It was as if she knew that something sad waited for her by the pond at the bottom.  She would be safer over there where Jerrold was laughing and shouting.  She would play with him and he wouldn’t be afraid.

The day felt like a Sunday, quiet, quiet, except for the noise of Jerrold’s laughter.  Strange and exciting, his boy’s voice rang through her sadness; it made her turn her head again and again to look after him; it called to her to forget and play.

Little slim brown minnows darted backwards and forwards under the olive green water of the pond.  And every now and then the fat goldfish came nosing along, orange, with silver patches, shining, making the water light round them, stiff mouths wide open.  When they bobbed up, small bubbles broke from them and sparkled and went out.

Anne remembered the goldfish; but somehow they were not so fascinating as they used to be.

A queer plant grew on the rock border of the pond.  Green fleshy stems, with blunt spikes all over them.  Each carried a tiny gold star at its tip.  Thick, cold juice would come out of it if you squeezed it.  She thought it would smell like lavender.

It had a name.  She tried to think of it.

Stonecrop.  Stonecrop.  Suddenly she remembered.

Her mother stood with her by the pond, dark and white and slender.  Anne held out her hands smeared with the crushed flesh of the stonecrop; her mother stooped and wiped them with her pockethandkerchief, and there was a smell of lavender.  The goldfish went swimming by in the olive-green water.

Anne’s sadness came over her again; sadness so heavy that it kept her from crying; sadness that crushed her breast and made her throat ache.

They went back up the lawn, quietly, and the day felt more and more like Sunday, or like—­like a funeral day.

“She’s very silent, this small daughter of yours,” Mr. Fielding said.

“Yes,” said Mr. Severn.

His voice came with a stiff jerk, as if it choked him.  He remembered, too.

ii

The grey and yellow flagstones of the terrace were hot under your feet.