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Wentworth, after a momentary surprise at beholding it, stopped the cob, and helped Fay with extreme care to the ground. One of Fay's attractions was her appearance of great fragility. Men felt instinctively that with the least careless usage she might break in two. She must be protected, cheered, have everything made smooth for her.
It was always a joy to Meg and Jan that whatever poor Fay might have left undone in the matter of disciplining her children, she had at least taught them to eat nicely. Little Fay's management of a spoon was a joy to watch. The dimpled baby hand was so deft, the turn of the plump wrist so sure and purposeful. She never spilled or slopped her food about.
The red-hot iron of our selfishness with which we brand others becomes in time hot at both ends. We don't know at first what it is that is hurting us, why it burns us. But our blistered hands, cling as they will, must needs drop it at last. Fay's cruel little white hand had let go. Michael took it in his and kissed it. "Wentworth is coming here this morning," said the Bishop gently.
Fay's hands slipped out of the Bishop's, her head fell forward, and she sank down on the floor. The Bishop and Magdalen bent over her. Michael looked a moment at her, and swiftly left the room. He overtook Wentworth in the hall, groping blindly for his hat. "Come in here," said Michael, "I want a word with you," and he half pushed Wentworth into a room leading out of the hall.
Poor Juba! he is trailing his long ears on the ground; he is evidently much disturbed in his mind: now he stands still, his nose in the air. Poor Juba! I left thee so slim and so nimble, "Thy form, that was fashioned as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round;" years have sobered thee strangely, and made thee obese and Primmins-like.
The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. If Fay's progress through life could have been drawn with a pencil it would have resembled the ups and downs, like the teeth of a saw, of a fever chart.
He had somehow nothing to say, but of course he should think of something striking directly. One of Fay's charms was that she did not talk much. A young couple close at hand were not hampered by any doubts as to a choice of subject.
"Good lord, I'm going to have to cut to make it underground before the main doors close. Just ten minutes to Second Curfew! 'By, Gus. 'By, Daze." Two minutes later, living room lights out, they watched Fay's foreshortened antlike figure scurrying across the balding ill-lit park toward the nearest escalator.
Jane Withersteen saw Fay's play and her beauty and her love as most powerful allies to her own woman's part in a game that suddenly had acquired a strange zest and a hint of danger. And as for the rider, he appeared to have forgotten Jane in the wonder of this lovely child playing about him. At first he was much the shyer of the two.
But unless we have learnt the beginnings of courage and self-surrender before we set out, we seem to turn giddy, and lose our footing. Certain precipices there are where only the pure and strong in heart may pass, at the foot of which are the piled bones of many passionate pilgrims. Were Fay's delicate little bones, so subtly covered in soft white flesh, to be added to that putrefying heap?
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