‘Yes. You haven’t told me what happened, mother.’
‘Well, this very tall and quite good-looking Mr. Monckton was waiting in the churchyard at your poor father’s tomb, when we came out after the service——’
‘Waiting for mother?’
‘Yes. He said he had come down on purpose to drive her up to London in his side-car——’
‘But mother isn’t going till Monday.’
‘Exactly. Nor, he said, was he. His motor-cycle was outside the gate, and he persuaded your mother to get in and let him drive her back here, and she did, and off they went. Off, really, like a flash. Such courage in your dear mother. I did so admire it at her age. Perfectly splendid, I thought. It means, you know, Virginia, vitality—the most important of all possessions. Without it one can do nothing. With it one can do everything. However—to go on. I watched them, and saw they didn’t take the first turning home, and then I met Stephen in the village, and they had been through it and just missed running over him by inches. Now, now, Virginia, don’t turn pale, dear child. They didn’t run over him, or of course I wouldn’t have told you. Now, my dearest child, there’s nothing at all exciting and upsetting in this, so don’t allow yourself to be upset. It’s very bad for you, you know——’
‘I’m not upset, mother. Why should I be?’ said Virginia, holding herself up. She hadn’t been able to help turning pale at the terrible idea of Stephen so narrowly missing being run over by her mother—oh, what a horrible combination of circumstances!—but what else, she asked herself, was there to mind in this? Why shouldn’t her mother, meeting a friend, go for a little turn in his side-car on such a fine morning?
‘I never knew your mother do anything in the least like this before,’ said Mrs. Colquhoun.
‘No,’ said Virginia. ‘But don’t you think there always has to be a beginning?’
‘A beginning?’