There were no Hughs, no little model—all that sordid life had vanished; there was nothing but the wind beating her cheeks and the A.i. Damyer leaping under her.
Mr. Purcey said: “It just makes all the difference to me; keeps my nerves in order.”
“Oh,” Cecilia murmured, “have you got nerves.”
Mr. Purcey smiled. When he smiled his cheeks formed two hard red blocks, his trim moustache stood out, and many little wrinkles ran from his light eyes.
“Chock full of them,” he said; “least thing upsets me. Can't bear to see a hungry-lookin' child, or anything.”
A strange feeling of admiration for this man had come upon Cecilia. Why could not she, and Thyme, and Hilary, and Stephen, and all the people they knew and mixed with, be like him, so sound and healthy, so unravaged by disturbing sympathies, so innocent of “social conscience,” so content?
As though jealous of these thoughts about her master, the A.i. Damyer stopped of her own accord.
“Hallo,” said Mr. Purcey, “hallo, I say! Don't you get out; she'll be all right directly.”
“Oh,” said Cecilia, “thanks; but I must go in here, anyhow; I think I'll say good-bye. Thank you so much. I have enjoyed it.”
From the threshold of a shop she looked back. Mr. Purcey, on foot, was leaning forward from the waist, staring at his A.i. Damyer with profound concentration.