I have my choice of crimes. The woods flit and fly-in summer there are bluebells; in the opening there, when Spring comes, primroses. A parting, was it, twenty years ago? Vows broken? Not Minnie's! . . . She was faithful. How she nursed her mother! All her savings on the tombstone– wreaths under glass-daffodils in jars. But I'm off the track. A crime. . . They would say she kept her sorrow, suppressed her secret-her sex, they'd say-the scientific people. But what flummery to saddle her with sex! No-more like this. Passing down the streets of Croydon twenty years ago, the violet loops of ribbon in the draper's window spangled in the electric light catch her eye. She lingers-past six. Still by running she can reach home. She pushes through the glass swing door. It's sale-time. Shallow trays brim with ribbons. She pauses, pulls this, fingers that with the raised roses on it-no need to choose, no need to buy, and each tray with its surprises. "We don't shut till seven," and then it is seven. She runs, she rushes, home she reaches, but too late. Neighbours-the doctor-baby brother-the kettle-scalded-hospital– dead-or only the shock of it, the blame? Ah, but the detail matters nothing! It's what she carries with her; the spot, the crime, the thing to expiate, always there between her shoulders.

"Yes," she seems to nod to me, "it's the thing I did."

Whether you did, or what you did, I don't mind; it's not the thing I want. The draper's window looped with violet-that'll do; a little cheap perhaps, a little commonplace-since one has a choice of crimes, but then so many (let me peep across again-still sleeping, or pretending sleep! white, worn, the mouth closed-a touch of obstinacy, more than one would think-no hint of sex)-so many crimes aren't your crime; your crime was cheap; only the retribution solemn; for now the church door opens, the hard wooden pew receives her; on the brown tiles she kneels; every day, winter, summer, dusk, dawn (here she's at it) prays. All her sins fall, fall, for ever fall. The spot receives them. It's raised, it's red, it's burning. Next she twitches. Small boys point. "Bob at lunch to-day"-But elderly women are the worst.

Indeed now you can't sit praying any longer. Kruger's sunk beneath the clouds-washed over as with a painter's brush of liquid grey, to which he adds a tinge of black-even the tip of the truncheon gone now. That's what always happens! Just as you've seen him, felt him, someone interrupts. It's Hilda now.

How you hate her! She'll even lock the bathroom door overnight, too, though it's only cold water you want, and sometimes when the night's been bad it seems as if washing helped. And John at breakfast-the children-meals are worst, and sometimes there are friends-ferns don't altogether hide 'em-they guess, too; so out you go along the front, where the waves are grey, and the papers blow, and the glass shelters green and draughty, and the chairs cost tuppence-too much-for there must be preachers along the sands. Ah, that's a nigger-that's a funny man-that's a man with parakeets-poor little creatures! Is there no one here who thinks of God?-just up there, over the pier, with his rod-but no-there's nothing but grey in the sky or if it's blue the white clouds hide him, and the music-it's military music-and what they are fishing for? Do they catch them? How the children stare! Well, then home a back way-"Home a back way!" The words have meaning; might have been spoken by the old man with whiskers-no, no, he didn't really speak; but everything has meaning-placards leaning against doorways-names above shop-windows-red fruit in baskets-women's heads in the hairdresser's-all say "Minnie Marsh!" But here's a jerk. "Eggs are cheaper!" That's what always happens! I was heading her over the waterfall, straight for madness, when, like a flock of dream sheep, she turns t'other way and runs between my fingers. Eggs are cheaper. Tethered to the shores of the world, none of the crimes, sorrows, rhapsodies, or insanities for poor Minnie Marsh; never late for luncheon; never caught in a storm without a mackintosh; never utterly unconscious of the cheapness of eggs. So she reaches home-scrapes her boots.

Have I read you right? But the human face-the human face at the top of the fullest sheet of print holds more, withholds more. Now, eyes open, she looks out; and in the human eye-how d'you define it?-there's a break-a division-so that when you've grasped the stem the butterfly's off-the moth that hangs in the evening over the yellow flower-move, raise your hand, off, high, away. I won't raise my hand. Hang still, then, quiver, life, soul, spirit, whatever you are of Minnie Marsh-I, too, on my flower-the hawk over the down-alone, or what were the worth of life? To rise; hang still in the evening, in the midday; hang still over the down. The flicker of a hand-off, up! then poised again. Alone, unseen; seeing all so still down there, all so lovely. None seeing, none caring. The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality. . . Oh, but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the corner, what's your name-woman-Minnie Marsh; some such name as that? There she is, tight to her blossom; opening her hand-bag, from which she takes a hollow shell-an egg-who was saying that eggs were cheaper? You or I? Oh, it was you who said it on the way home, you remember, when the old gentleman, suddenly opening his umbrella-or sneezing was it? Anyhow, Kruger went, and you came "home a back way," and scraped your boots. Yes. And now you lay across your knees a pocket-handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell-fragments of a map-a puzzle. I wish I could piece them together! If you would only sit still. She's moved her knees-the map's in bits again. Down the slopes of the Andes the white blocks of marble go bounding and hurtling, crushing to death a whole troop of Spanish muleteers, with their convoy-Drake's booty, gold and silver. But to return-

To what, to where? She opened the door, and, putting her umbrella in the stand-that goes without saying; so, too, the whiff of beef from the basement; dot, dot, dot. But what I cannot thus eliminate, what I must, head down, eyes shut, with the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull, charge and disperse are, indubitably, the figures behind the ferns, commercial travellers. There I've hidden them all this time in the hope that somehow they'd disappear, or better still emerge, as indeed they must, if the story's to go on gathering richness and rotundity, destiny and tragedy, as stories should, rolling along with it two, if not three, commercial travellers and a whole grove of aspidistra. "The fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the commercial traveller-" Rhododendrons would conceal him utterly, and into the bargain give me my fling of red and white, for which I starve and strive; but rhododendrons in Eastbourne-in December-on the Marshes' table-no, no, I dare not; it's all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. Perhaps there'll be a moment later by the sea. Moreover, I feel, pleasantly pricking through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass, a desire to peer and peep at the man opposite-one's as much as I can manage. James Moggridge is it, whom the Marshes call Jimmy? James Moggridge travels in-shall we say buttons?-but the time's not come for bringing them in-the big and the little on the long cards, some peacock-eyed, others dull gold; cairngorms some, and others coral sprays-but I say the time's not come. He travels, and on Thursdays, his Eastbourne day, takes his meals with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes-by no means. altogether commonplace-his enormous appetite (that's safe; he won't look at Minnie till the bread's swamped the gravy dry), napkin tucked diamond-wise-but this is primitive, and, whatever it may do the reader, don't take me in. Let's dodge to the Moggridge household, set that in motion. Well, the family boots are mended on Sundays by James himself. He reads Truth. But his passion? Roses-and his wife a retired hospital nurse-interesting-for God's sake let me have one woman with a name I like! But no; she's of the unborn children of the mind, illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. How many die in every novel that's written-the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It's life's fault. Here's Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t'other end of the line-are we past Lewes?-there must be Jimmy-or what's her twitch for?