Supposing Jimmy had had a crystal mind. Shining and flashing. Supposing
he had never done that awful thing they said he did. Supposing he had had
Mark's ways, had been noble and honourable like Mark--

The interminable reverie began. He was there beside her in the bracken.
She didn't know what his name would be. It couldn't be Jimmy or Harry or
any of those names. Not Mark. Mark's name was sacred.

Cecil, perhaps.

_Why_ Cecil? _Cecil_?--You ape! You drivelling, dribbling idiot! That was
the sort of thing Aunt Charlotte would have thought of.

She got up with a jump and stretched herself. She would have to run if
she was to be home in time for tea.

From the top hayfield she could see the Sutcliffes' tennis court; an
emerald green space set in thick grey walls. She drew her left hand
slowly down her right forearm. The muscle was hardening and thickening.

Mamma didn't like it when you went by yourself to play singles with Mr.
Sutcliffe. But if Mr. Sutcliffe asked you you would simply have to go.
You would have to play a great many singles against Mr. Sutcliffe if you
were to be in good form next year when Mark came home.


VII.

She was always going to the Sutcliffes' now. Her mother shook her head
when she saw her in her short white skirt and white jersey, slashing at