And then Sophia Lane Watson came back. It seems odd now to think
of that time without her, and then her coming back. She had mattered
so much to me before, and now again in a different way, and in
between she had not mattered at all.
It began in that Poetry Shop near Leicester Square. I was there
with Hugo, looking at books, and I found a book on the shelf
of new publications. _Verses_, by Sophia Watson. I was looking
at the verses without thinking of her, for Sophia Watson seemed
different somehow from Lane Watson, and then as I read the verses
they reminded me of her. They reminded me of the poetry she used
to write at school, and I suddenly wondered if it could be the
same. I showed the book to Hugo, and he started to read it, and
then he went on and on.
There was a great shaft of sunlight with dust in it—motes of
dust floating in it; it shone through the little window high
up at the back of the shop and across the foreign books in paper
covers that were there, and on to Hugo, and I watched him as
he read and felt pleased I had shown him the book, for he always
found the new books as a rule.
‘By Jove,’ he said at length. ‘This is jolly stuff. Do you say
you know the woman? Sophia Watson? I don’t remember her.’
‘She was at Ellsfield—at school you know. Don’t you remember,
she came to Yearsly once? She was a great friend of mine then—at
least I think this must be the same.’ Hugo puckered his brows.
‘Oh, a little dark thing. I believe I remember her. Was that
her name?’
‘I wonder where she is now,’ I said. ‘I think I shall write to
her again.’ I felt suddenly that I should like to see her.
Hugo bought the book, and I wrote to her and addressed the letter
care of her publishers.
It was over a week before I had an answer. Then it was an answer
very like her.
‘DEAR HELEN,—
‘Thank you for your letter. It was kind of you to write. I am
glad you liked my poems. I don’t know if they are good. I am
living in London now and this is my address.
‘Yours sincerely,
‘SOPHIA WATSON.’
It was like a child’s letter, so stiff and abrupt, and it made
me laugh. I invited her to tea at Campden Hill, and Hugo and
Mollie to meet her.
She was very like what she had been as a child, but I think less
striking. Her hair was up, of course, and did not look so much
and so black, and it mattered more now she was grown up that
she was so badly dressed.
She was wearing a cotton dress that afternoon—a lilac check that
might have been quite nice, but it was all washed out and hung
down behind in a tail, as her skirts used to do at school, and
she had a green straw hat that did not go with it at all, and
grey stockings and brown shoes.
She was very stiff and polite when she came in. Grandmother spoke
to her first; she remembered her coming to lunch when we were
little, and she had known her father long ago, she said. She
smiled at me, but gravely, in a distant sort of way.
She said:
‘It is a long time since we have met, but I should have known
you again.’
‘And I you,’ I said. ‘I am sure I should.’
Grandmother laughed at us.
‘What, six years, is it, or five? I should hope you would remember.’