“I’m Fanny. Emily’s dead. We did pretty well together, but somehow—I dunno, I don’t seem to catch on alone. I’m tramping back to London.” She was unable to keep her resolutely cheerful voice quite steady, or prevent her smiling mouth from trembling.
Danby bent forward and caught Fanny’s hand, and held it warmly.
“Oh, my dear,” he said. “My dear.”
There was no longer any need for society manners between these two, nor introductions nor small-talk. They had become brother and sister—two human beings on the same hard road.
“So we’re both of us lame dogs, eh?” he said.
“Yes,” said Fanny, “but not too lame to give each other a hand over the stile. I’m not going to give up barking, and you’re not, either.”
“I’ve got no bark left in me,” said Danby sadly. “Not even a growl.”
The girl sprang to her feet. Her young body seemed to be alight with energy.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Mr. Danby!” she said. “Cock up your tail, go springy on your feet, and come back to London, and give ’em a bit of the old. D’you mean to tell me that you can’t remember the knack you had of doing the blear-eyed major?”
Danby was beginning to feel horribly excited. His depression seemed to be lifting like a mist.