The first leaves of autumn were beginning to fall when Catherine returned to Bockley after a fortnight at Hastings. Day after day of glorious September weather had covered her cheeks and arms and hands with freckles: her hair, too, was fluffed and shining with continual sea-bathing: her general appearance was rather wild and undomesticated for such a place as Bockley. She returned on Saturday night, and Sunday found her waiting outside the Baptist Church at Upton Rising. Evening service was over at eight o’clock, and she judged that Helen would be there.
Helen greeted her at the church door.
“Only you?” said Catherine.
Helen nodded. “The others went for a walk.... It’s a fine night—let’s take a tram to the Forest.”
The trams of the London County Council ran along the end of the road. They boarded one; it was full, and they had to stand on the top.
“You look well,” remarked Helen.
“Oh, I’m all right,” replied Catherine, and the conversation languished.
What ensued after that would always in Catherine’s mind be inextricably bound up with the sway and purr of trams along the high road.
“George has gone away,” remarked Helen, à propos of nothing.
“Oh?”