And they scampered out of the room again, Maria ambling slowly in the
rear, to prepare for church. There were prayer-books and things to
find, threepenny bits and sixpences for the collection. There was
simply heaps to do, as they expressed it, and not a moment to lose
either. Uncle Felix listened to the sound of voices and footsteps as
they flew down the passage, dying rapidly away into the distance, and
finally ceasing altogether. He puffed his pipe a little longer before
going to his room upon a similar errand. He watched the smoke curl up
and melt into the outer air; he felt the pleasant sunshine warm upon
his face; he smelt the perfume rising from his enormous button-hole.
But of these things he did not think. He thought of what Maria said.
The way she uttered that single word remained with him: "Birthday."
He had half divined her secret. For a birthday was the opening of
life; it was the beginning. Maria had "got it always." All days for
her were birthdays, Extra Days.
And while they walked along the lane to church he still was thinking
about it.
The conversation proved that he was absent-minded rather; yet not that
his mind was absent so much as intent upon other things.
Pages:
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450