“And you—you have no children?”
She hesitated. “No.”
I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children going home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been myself and Ruthie of years ago.
“They won’t see me,” I warned her.
“Who?”
“Folks at Pope Lane.”
“They’re not there. Only Hetty’s left to take care of the house. They’ve gone away for a few days.”
“Then I can see it all again. We can walk in the garden together and pretend that things are exactly as they were.”
“Oh, Dannie!” she cried. “I can call you Dannie, can’t I?”
Time slipped away. She was my little sister now—no longer Lady Halloway. At the posts before the passage we alighted—that was the first news the coachman had of whom he had been driving. We went slowly up the lane, where the shadows of the limes groped like tentacles fingering the sunshine. When I felt beneath the creepers and the bell jangled faintly, Ruthita clutched my arm, attempting to appear bold.