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Marcia. She did, and finally passed. So when her husband regretted that he could not drive his daughter to catch the London train, owing to some educational conference which he was bound to attend, Marcia was able to say, with casual pride, “That’s no trouble. I’ll take her.”
    In a way, Flora was relieved. She hated goodbyes, inevitably becoming emotional at the sound of a train whistle. She knew that if her father were there, she would probably weep all over him, which would make the parting all the worse for everybody.
    It was another warm and cloudless day, the sky as blue as it had been all year, and the bracken gold. As well, there was a sparkle to the air which made the most mundane objects as clear-cut as crystal. Marcia, whose thought processes were comfortingly simple to follow, began to carol in her fruity contralto, “Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day…” and then abandoned her song and stooped down to feel for her handbag, which meant that she wanted a cigarette. The car, accordingly, weaved dangerously across the white line and over onto the wrong side of the road, so Flora said quickly, “I’ll get it,” and found the bag and the cigarette while Marcia got the car back on course again. Flora stuck the cigarette into Marcia’s mouth, and then held the lighter so that Marcia wouldn’t have to take her hands off the wheel.
    The cigarette going, Marcia went on with her song.
    â€œI’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going…” She stopped again, frowning. “Darling, you do promise me you’re not going back to horrible London just because of me?”
    This question had been asked every night at regular intervals for the last seven days. Flora took a deep breath. “No. I’ve told you, no. I’m simply picking up the threads of my life and carrying on where I left off a year ago.”
    â€œI can’t get rid of this feeling that I’m turning you out of your own home.”
    â€œWell, you’re not. And anyway, you can look at the situation from my point of view. Knowing my father has found a good woman to take care of him, I can go off and leave him with a clear conscience.”
    â€œI’d feel happier if I knew what sort of a life it was going to be. I’ve got a horrible preconceived pictures of you in a bedsitter, eating cold beans out of a tin.”
    â€œI’ve told you,” said Flora robustly, “I’ll find somewhere to live, and while I’m looking I’m going to stay with my friend Jane Porter. It’s all been fixed. The girl who lives with her is on holiday with her boyfriend, so I can have her bed. And by the time she comes back from her holiday, I shall have found myself a flat of my own and a fabulous job and I’ll be home and dry.” But Marcia continued to look gloomy. “Look, I’m twenty-two, not twelve. And a terribly, terribly efficient shorthand typist. There’s not a thing to worry about.”
    â€œWell, if things don’t work out, promise to call me and I’ll come and mother you.”
    â€œI’ve never been mothered in my life and I can manage without it.” Flora added, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t meant to sound quite so brusque.”
    â€œNot brusque at all, darling, just plain fact. But you know, the more I think about it, the more fantastic it becomes.”
    â€œI’m not sure what you are talking about.”
    â€œYour mother. Abandoning you and your father, and you just an infant. I mean, I can imagine a woman abandoning a husband. At least, I can’t imagine anybody abandoning darling Ronald—but a baby! It seems so completely inhuman. You’d have thought that having gone through all the business of actually having a child, you’d want to keep it.”
    â€œI’m glad she didn’t keep me. I wouldn’t have had anything different. How Pa managed,