And I am to forget that I ever worked in a grubby government

office--indeed I am to forget that I ever worked at all.

And I am to forget all of my dreams. I am to change from the Mary

Ballard who wanted to do things to the Mary Ballard who wants them done

for her. Perhaps when you see me again I shall be nice and clinging

and as sweetly feminine as you used to want me to be--Roger Poole.

The mists have cleared, and there's a cloud on the horizon--I can hear

people saying that it means a storm. Shall I be afraid? I wonder. Do

you remember the storm that came that day in the garden and drove us

in? I wonder if we shall ever be together again in the dear old garden?

After the storm.

Last night the storm waked us. It was a dreadful storm, with the wind

booming, and the sea all whipped up into a whirlpool.

But I wasn't frightened, although everybody was awake, and there was a

feeling that something might happen. I asked Porter to take me on

deck, but he said that no one was allowed, and so we just curled up on

chairs and sofas and waited either for the storm to end or for the ship

to sink. If you've ever been in a storm at sea, you know the

feeling--that the next minute may bring calm and safety, or terror and

death.

Porter had tucked a rug around me, and I lay there, looking at the

others, wondering whether if an accident happened Delilah would face

death as gracefully as she faces everything else. Leila was very white

and shivery and clung to her father; it is at such times that she seems

such a child.

Aunt Frances was fussy and blamed everybody from the captain down to

Aunt Isabelle--as if they could control the warring elements. Surely

it is a case of the "ruling passion."

But while I am writing these things, I am putting off, and putting off

and putting off the story of what happened after the storm--not because

I dread to tell it, but because I don't know quite how to tell it. It

involves such intimate things--yet it makes all things clear, it makes

everything so beautifully clear, Roger Poole.

It was after the wind died down a bit that I made Porter take me up on

deck. The moon was flying through the ragged clouds, and the water was

a wild sweep of black and white. It was all quite spectral and

terrifying and I shivered. And then Porter said; "Mary, we'd better go

down."




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