One day Mary received in a letter a postal order for ten shillings. This was a present from a distant aunt in America who had suddenly remembered Mary’s birthday. Filled with glee and self-importance, she went in to St. Mary’s with Miss Jones to spend it.
That evening when Jeremy was washing his hands there was a knock on his door and Mary’s voice: “May I come in?”
“Yes,” he said.
She came in, her face coloured with mysterious purpose. In her hands she held a paper parcel.
“Oh, are you washing your hands, Jeremy?” she said, her favourite opening in conversation being always a question of the obvious. The red evening sunlight flooded the room.
“What is it?” Jeremy asked rather crossly.
She looked at him pleadingly, as though begging him to save her from the difficulties of emotion and explanation that crowded in upon her.
“Oh, Jeremy, St. Mary’s was lovely, and there was a man with an organ and a monkey, and I gave the monkey a penny and it took it in its hand and took off its cap. . . . Miss Jones has got a cold,” she added, “and sneezed all the way home.”
“She always has a cold,” he said, “or something.”
“And it goes straight to her face when she has a cold and makes all her teeth ache—not only one of them, but all. She isn’t coming down to supper. She’s gone to bed.”