“Do, please, let me go to bed.”
“Certainly, dear.”
How I wished she wouldn’t “dear” me in that insincere and meaningless way.
Chapter Four.
The Sun Calls.
“I know not where the white road runs,
Nor what the blue hills are;
But a man can have the Sun for his friend,
And for his guide a Star.”
I awoke to the far-off chink of china, a babble of native voices in the back regions of the house, and a glare of sunshine bursting through a small canvas window.
I closed my eyes again, and lay for a long time thinking of the soft, sweet-aired September mornings in Ireland, all grey and misty—trying to believe I was back there in my chintz-curtained bed in my chintz-covered room with the salt sting of the Atlantic coming in through the windows on the faint peat-scented breeze. I made myself believe that the chink of china was the chink of the morning tea-cup on Nora’s tray, as she came in with my letters and a bunch of violets and a soft bright: