then saying nothing to her, but sneaking off to tell tales to her mamma!  Imagine it!  Mimi’s strict sense of justice could not blame her mamma.  She was sure that the new stepmother meant well by her.  Her mamma had given her every opportunity to confess, to admit of her own accord that she had been talking to somebody in the street, and she had not confessed.  On the contrary, she had lied.  Her mamma would probably say nothing more on the matter, for she had a considerable sense of honour with children, and would not take an unfair advantage.  Having tried to obtain a confession from Mimi by pretending that she knew nothing, and having failed, she was not the woman to turn round and say, “Now I know all about it.  So just confess at once!” Her mamma would accept the situation, would try to behave as if nothing had happened, and would probably even say nothing to her father.

But Mimi knew that she was ruined for ever in her stepmother’s esteem.

And she had quarrelled with Jean, which was exceedingly hateful and exceedingly rare.  And there was also the private worry of her mysterious back.  And there was another thing.  The mere fact that her friend, Mr Coe, had gone and married somebody.  For long she had had a weakness for Mr Coe.  They had been intimate at times.  Once, last year, in the stern of a large sailing-boat at Morecambe, while her friends were laughing and shouting at the prow, she and Mr Coe had had a most beautiful quiet conversation about her thoughts on the world in general; she had stroked his hand....  No!  She had no dream whatever of growing up into a woman and then marrying Mr Coe!  Certainly not.  But still, that he should have gone and married, like that ... it was....

The fire died out into blackness, thus ceasing to be a friend.  Still she did not sleep.  Was it likely that she should sleep, with the tragedy and woe of the entire universe crushing her?

VI

Mr Edward Coe and Olive Two arose from their bed the next morning in great spirits.  Mr Coe had told both his wife and Mimi that the hour of departure from Rottingdean would be six o’clock.  But this was an exaggeration.  So far as his wife was concerned he had already found it well to exaggerate on such matters.  A little judicious exaggeration lessened the risk of missing trains and other phenomena which cannot be missed without confusion and disappointment.

As a fact it was already six o’clock when Edward Coe looked forth from the bedroom window.  He was completely dressed.  His wife also was completely dressed.  He therefore felt quite safe about the train.  The window, which was fairly high up in the world, gave on the south-east, so that he had a view, not only of the vast naked downs billowing away towards Newhaven, but also of the Channel, which was calm, and upon which little parcels of fog rested.  The sky was clear overhead, of a greenish sapphire colour, and the autumnal air bit and gnawed on the skin like some friendly domestic animal, and invigorated like an expensive tonic.  On the dying foliage of a tree near the window millions of precious stones hung.  Cocks were boasting.  Cows were expressing a justifiable anxiety.  And in the distance a small steamer was making a great deal of smoke about nothing, as it puffed out of Newhaven harbour.