She stared across the sea.
A gleaming sail, far out across the bay, caught a momentary flash of sunlight, then vanished into the grey waste of water.
And she was no older than David and Fred Stephens and Ursula and Violet—only different.
The sharp clop, clop of hoofs along the Esplanade caught her attention. She turned her head. Through the glass at the back of the shelter she saw John driving towards the nursing-home. She waited until he turned the corner, then rose and quickly followed.
The dog-cart was drawn up outside the gates of the nursing-home. John saw her coming, and raised his hand.
"Where have you been, honey? I thought you were with Ursula?"
"I went out on the Front a bit." She climbed wearily into the seat beside him.
Once, on the drive home, he broke the silence: "I was talking to Toby up in the market. He was saying to me that the Diamond Assurance Company, the one we deal with for the house and farm buildings and so on—fire insurance—it's going to pot. He says we ought to transfer our policy to Mallesons'. They're clients of his—good people. What do you think?"
Mary was not listening. Her eyes were looking beyond the falling road to the grey village, in the cup-shaped hollow of the walls.
"Eh, honey?"