It had come without surprise, almost without excitement; the quiet
happening of something secretly foreseen, present to her mind as long as
she could remember.
"I always meant that this should happen: something like this."
Now that it had happened she was afraid, seeing, but not so clearly, what
would come afterwards: something that would make her want to leave Morfe
and Mamma and go away to London and know the people Richard Nicholson had
told her about, the people who would care for what she had done; the
people who were doing the things she cared about. To talk to them; to
hear them talk. She was afraid of wanting that more than anything in the
world.
She saw her fear first in Mamma's eyes when she told her.
And there was something else. Something to do with Richard Nicholson.
Something she didn't want to think about. Not fear exactly, but a sort of
uneasiness when she thought about him.
His mind really was the enormous, perfect crystal she had imagined. It
had been brought close to her; she had turned it in her hand and seen it
flash and shine. She had looked into it and seen beautiful, clear things
in it: nothing that wasn't beautiful and clear. She was afraid of wanting
to look at it again when it wasn't there. Because it had made her happy
she might come to want it more than anything in the world.
In two weeks it would be gone. She would want it and it would not be
there.