Mamma was going backwards and forwards between the open work-table and
the cabinet. She was taking out the ivory reels and thimbles and button
boxes, wrapping them in tissue paper and hiding them in the cabinet. When
she had locked the doors she waited till you weren't looking to lift up
her skirt and hide the key in her petticoat pocket.
She was happy, like a busy child at play.
She was never ill, only tired like a child that plays too long. Her face
was growing smooth and young and pretty again; a pink flush under her
eyes. She would never look disapproving or reproachful any more. She
couldn't listen any more when you read aloud to her. She had forgotten
how to play halma.
One day she found the green box in the cabinet drawer. She came to you
carrying it with care. When she had put it down on the table she lifted
the lid and looked at the little green and white pawns and smiled.
"Roddy's soldiers," she said.
* * * * *
Richard doesn't know what he's talking about when he asks me to give up
Mamma. He might as well ask me to give up my child. It's no use his
saying she "isn't there." Any minute she may come back and remember and
know me.
She must have known me yesterday when she asked me to go and see what
Papa was doing.
As for "waiting," he may have to wait years and years. And I'm forty-five
now.