"Mr. Ponsonby. Mr. Ponsonby! Stay where you are and look!"
From the window at the end of the top corridor the side of the house went
sheer down into the lane. Mary was at the window. Mr. Ponsonby was in the
lane.
She climbed on to the ledge and knelt there. Grasping the bottom of the
window frame firmly with both hands and letting her knees slide from the
ledge, she lowered herself, and hung for one ecstatic moment, and drew
herself up again by her arms.
"What did you do it for, Mary?"
Mr. Ponsonby had rushed up the stairs and they were sitting there. He was
so tall that he hung over her when he leaned.
"It's nothing. You ought to be able to pull up your own weight."
"You mustn't do it from top-storey windows. It's dangerous."
"Not if you've practised on the banisters first. Where's Mark?"
"With your Mater. I say, supposing you and I go for a walk."
"We must be back at six o'clock," she said.
When you went for walks with Mark or Mr. Ponsonby they always raced you
down Ley Street and over the ford at the bottom. They both gave you the
same start to the Horn's Tavern; the only difference was that with Mr.
Ponsonby you were over the ford first.
They turned at the ford into the field path that led to Drake's Farm and
the plantation. He jumped all the stiles and she vaulted them. She could
see that he respected her. And so they came to the big water jump into
the plantation. Mr. Ponsonby went over first and held out his arms. She
hurled herself forward and he caught her. And this time, instead of
putting her down instantly, he lifted her up in his arms and held her
tight and kissed her. Her heart thumped violently and she had a sudden
happy feeling. Neither spoke.
Humphrey Propart had kissed her once for a forfeit. And she had boxed his
ears. Mr. Ponsonby's was a different sort of kiss.
They tore through the plantation as if nothing had happened, clearing all
the brooks in a business-like way. Mr. Ponsonby took brook-jumping as the
serious and delightful thing it was.
Going home across the fields they held each other's hands, like children.
"Minky," he said, "I don't like to think of you hanging out of top-storey
windows."
"But it's so jolly to feel your body come squirming up after your arms."
"It is. It is. All the same, promise me you won't do it any more."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to India when I've passed out, and I want to find you
alive when I come back. Promise me, Minky."
"I will, if you're really going. But you're the only person I allow to
call me Minky, except Mark."
"Am I? I'm glad I'm the only person."
They went on.
"I'm afraid," she said, "my hand is getting very hot and horrid."
He held it tighter. "I don't care how hot and horrid it gets. And I think
you might call me Jimmy."
It was long after six o'clock. She had forgotten the children and their
bed-time. After that day she never played with them again.