"Soofcourse,"wroteBettyFlanders,pressingherheelsratherdeeperinthesand,"therewasnothingforitbuttoleave."
Slowlywellingfromthepointofhergoldnib,paleblueinkdissolvedthefullstopforthereherpenstuckhereyesfixed,andtearsslowlyfilledthem.TheentirebayquiveredthelighthousewobbledandshehadtheillusionthatthemastofMr.Connor'slittleyachtwasbendinglikeawaxcandleinthesun.Shewinkedquickly.Accidentswereawfulthings.Shewinkedagain.Themastwasstraightthewaveswereregularthelighthousewasuprightbuttheblothadspread.
"…nothingforitbuttoleave,"sheread.
"Well,ifJacobdoesn'twanttoplay"(theshadowofArcher,hereldestson,fellacrossthenotepaperandlookedblueonthesand,andshefeltchilly—itwasthethirdofSeptemberalready),"ifJacobdoesn'twanttoplay"—whatahorridblot!Itmustbegettinglate.
"WhereISthattiresomelittleboy?"shesaid."Idon'tseehim.Runandfindhim.Tellhimtocomeatonce.""…butmercifully,"shescribbled,ignoringthefullstop,"everythingseemssatisfactorilyarranged,packedthoughwearelikeherringsinabarrel,andforcedtostandtheperambulatorwhichthelandladyquitenaturallywon'tallow…."
SuchwereBettyFlanders'sletterstoCaptainBarfoot—many-paged,tear-stained.ScarboroughissevenhundredmilesfromCornwall:CaptainBarfootisinScarborough:Seabrookisdead.Tearsmadeallthedahliasinhergardenundulateinredwavesandflashedtheglasshouseinhereyes,andspangledthekitchenwithbrightknives,andmadeMrs.Jarvis,therector'swife,thinkatchurch,whilethehymn-tuneplayedandMrs.Flandersbentlowoverherlittleboys'heads,thatmarriageisafortressandwidowsstraysolitaryintheopenfields,pickingupstones,gleaningafewgoldenstraws,lonely,unprotected,poorcreatures.Mrs.Flandershadbeenawidowforthesetwoyears.
"Ja—cob!Ja—cob!"Archershouted.
"Scarborough,"Mrs.Flanderswroteontheenvelope,anddashedaboldlinebeneathitwashernativetownthehuboftheuniverse.Butastamp?Sheferretedinherbagthenhelditupmouthdownwardsthenfumbledinherlap,allsovigorouslythatCharlesSteeleinthePanamahatsuspendedhispaint-brush.
Liketheantennaeofsomeirritableinsec