Janet clambered down from her stool. "Crying?" she asked.
Sally gazed up at her with tearless eyes. "No; I can't cry now. I try to. I can't."
"God! What a difference it 'ud make to you!" said Janet.
"What would?"
"If you had a kiddy. What was this little Maurie like? He sounded sweet in your letters. Why don't you see as much of him as you can? I'm sure he's fond of you. Isn't he?"
"Yes—in his way—in his dear little way. But you don't want fondness from children."
"What do you want, then?"
"Love. If you want anything at all. There were some of the little boys down at Cailsham who were loathsome: horrid little wretches, who'd put out their tongues at you."
"Sons of gentlemen," said Janet.
"One of them spat at me once when I was giving him a music lesson. You couldn't want anything from them. But I could almost have believed that Maurie was mine."