In the silence, Paul Kestern crept into bed, and believed himself comforted.
(4)
A few hours before, at Claxted, Madeline Ernest had been sitting alone by the fire, putting a few finishing touches to a blouse. It was a Christmas present for Ethel Cator, and it had to be finished that night. That was the worst of making Christmas presents. In a way it was rather fun, but before you had finished, the days had nearly always all but run out and you had to go on working when you were tired. Madeline was tired, but she wished she could afford to buy presents. Also to buy a few more things for herself—some silk stockings, for example; she put her head on one side to consider that. She looked very pretty as she did so. The lamplight shone on her fair abundant hair and her white skin. Big eyes, too, she had, and lovely lashes. It was a pity there was nobody more appreciative than the old purring tabby by the fire to see her.
She dabbed with her needle once or twice, and lifted the shining stuff. Through her pretty head a current of thoughts was flowing inconsequently. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Ernest came in.
Mrs. Ernest was short, comfortably stout, a little bent. She had been pretty, and she was growing grey. She was almost always tired, and with good reason. Mr. Ernest was not even a Vicar, and, truth to tell, she had ceased to hope that he ever would be.
"Still working, Madeline?"
"Yes, mother. I must finish this. Ethel always sends me something and I must remember her."
"Have you put the clean things away?"
"No. I'm so sorry. I'll go at once. I forgot all about them."
"Never mind. Sit down a minute. Madeline, have you heard about Paul?"