‘… They are called typhoons … The mate did not seem to like it … Not in books … Couldn’t think of letting it go on …’

The paper rustled sharply. ‘… A calm that lasted over twenty minutes,’ she read perfunctorily; and the next words her thoughtless eyes caught, on the top of another page, were: ‘see you and the children again …’ She had a movement of impatience. He was always thinking of coming home. He had never had such a good salary before. What was the matter now!

It did not occur to her to turn back overleaf to look. She would have found it recorded there that between 4 and 6 a.m. on December 25th, Captain MacWhirr did actually think that his ship could not possibly live another hour in such a sea, and that he would never see his wife and children again. Nobody was to know this (his letters got mislaid so quickly)—nobody whatever but the steward, who had been greatly impressed by that disclosure. So much so, that he tried to give the cook some idea of the ‘narrow squeak we all had’ by saying solemnly, ‘The old man himself had a dam’ poor opinion of our chance.’

‘How do you know?’ asked contemptuously the cook, an old soldier, ‘He hasn’t told you, maybe?’

‘Well, he did give me a hint to that effect,’ the steward brazened it out.

‘Get along with you! He will be coming to tell me next,’ jeered the old cook over his shoulder.

Mrs MacWhirr glanced farther, on the alert. ‘… Do what’s fair … Miserable objects … Only three, with a broken leg each, and one … Thought had better keep the matter quiet … hope to have done the fair thing …’

She let fall her hands. No: there was nothing more about coming home. Must have been merely expressing a pious wish. Mrs MacWhirr’s mind was set at ease, and a black marble clock, priced by the local jeweller at £3 18s. 6d., had a discreet stealthy tick.

The door flew open, and a girl, in the long-legged, short-frocked period of existence, flung into the room. A lot of colourless, rather lanky hair was scattered over her shoulders. Seeing her mother, she stood still, and directed her pale prying eyes upon the letter.

‘From father,’ murmured Mrs MacWhirr. ‘What have you done with your ribbon?’

The girl put her hands up to her head and pouted.

‘He’s well,’ continued Mrs MacWhirr languidly. ‘At least I think so. He never says.’ She had a little laugh. The girl’s face expressed a wandering indifference, and Mrs MacWhirr surveyed her with fond pride.

‘Go and get your hat,’ she said after a while. ‘I am going out to do some shopping. There is a sale at Linom’s.’

‘Oh, how jolly!’ uttered the child impressively, in unexpectedly grave vibrating tones, and bounded out of the room.

It was a fine afternoon, with a grey sky and dry sidewalks. Outside the draper’s Mrs MacWhirr smiled upon a woman in a black mantle of generous proportions, armoured in jet and crowned with flowers blooming falsely above a bilious matronly countenance. They broke into a swift little babble of greetings and exclamations both together, very hurried, as if the street were ready to yawn open and swallow all that pleasure before it could be expressed.

Behind them the high glass doors were kept on the swing. People couldn’t pass, men stood aside waiting patiently, and Lydia was absorbed in poking the end of her parasol between the stone flags. Mrs MacWhirr talked rapidly.