risk, of course, that one of the servants might mention Anderson's visit to their master—but Helen's beyond such petty calculations. She can't think of anywhere else to ask him to meet her on a Sunday morning, now that Taviton Street is out of bounds. (Fido, having almost pushed Helen out of the cab Friday afternoon, is evidently still in a fury. She won't even answer Helen's notes, let alone be of any practical assistance.)
"Guess, do."
"Guess, Mama," Nell orders in her ragged voice.
When the maid comes to announce Anderson, should Helen let the girls stay for a few minutes, to greet their old playmate from Malta? That might fill him with nostalgia for summer days on the hills above Valetta. Or, of course, remind him that his Mrs. C. is a mother and a wife, past her prime. (My marriage didn't stand in our way, she argues in her head, why should yours? Husbands take mistresses every day.) But then the girls are sure to mention Anderson to their papa. Besides, there's not enough time; he must at all costs be gone by the time Harry gets home from church. "A face but no mouth," mutters Helen. "A mouthless face. Sewn shut?"
"It's a clock, of course," crows Nan, and Nell giggles. "Another?"
"Really, I—"
"Another for Mama!"
Twenty past. If Anderson comes now, they'll barely have half an hour. Was there a line in her letter that scared him off? Helen made it as high-minded and persuasive as she possibly could; she tried to write it in the voice of another kind of woman altogether. Damn him, he owes her a meeting; he owes her one more chance.
Fido would no doubt advise Helen not to lower herself any further. She'd urge self-respect. But she's not here, is she? So much for loyalty. So much for the friendship of women.
"What has hands, but no fingers?"
Helen makes a small exasperated sound. "Are all your riddles on the theme of mutilation?"
"You're prevaricating," sings Nan, proud of the new word.
The man's not coming at all. Behind that shining, bluff face, what cruelty.
"Guess! Guess!"
"You'd never treat your father like this," says Helen. "Let me see, no fingers. Has it thumbs?"
"No fingers, no thumbs, only hands," says Nell, holding up clenched fists.
"May I have a clue?"
Her daughters exchange serious looks. "You've already had one," says Nan.
"Hands with no fingers or thumbs..."
"She'll never get it. The clock, again," squeals Nell, and Helen, horrified, looks where her daughter's pointing. "A clock has hands, just as it has a face."
"You're rather stupid today, Mama," observes Nan.
"Yes, I am," says Helen, and her voice comes out tragic.
"Mama, I didn't mean it!"
"It's just that we've had more practice at riddles than you," Nell assures her. "Let's try a different game."
"I'm tired of riddles, anyway," says Nan. She picks up a pack of cards. "Shall we play All Fall Down?"
"I rather think I'm still too shaky," says Nell, holding out her hand and watching it tremble.
"Oh, I'll build the house," says Nan, already forming cards into precarious triangles on the table. "You and Mama may shout when it falls."
Speechless, Helen's turned her face to the window. The streets are quiet on Sundays. No sound for several minutes but the faint contact of card on card. Then a flutter, and Nell yelps, "All Fall Down!"
But Helen's heard the scrape of the front door opening, and she whirls around. "I believe we may have a visitor," she cries, too excited. "Whoever could it be? Come, let's tidy these games away."
Nan shakes her head at her. "Nobody rang or knocked, silly Mama. That means it's only Papa, home from church."
"Let's play Old Maid," suggests Nell.
"Happy Families," Nan countermands.
When Harry comes into the drawing-room, Helen's sitting quite still, beside her daughters, like some tableau of domesticity. "You're early," she murmurs without looking up. "Nell, I'm looking for ... Mrs. Bones the butcher's wife."
"Not at home!"
"Who's winning?" he asks.
"I am," crows Nan. "Mama keeps forgetting the rules."
***
The following day, late in the afternoon, Helen walks out the door of her house, to a waiting cab.
Rattling along, she takes out one of the large buff cards that say Mrs. Henry J. Codrington. She stares at the four corners—Felicitation, Visite, Condolence, Conge—but none of them seems appropriate to fold down, and she can't think of anything to write on it. Blank will have to do.
She's never been to Anderson's lodgings before; she's never let herself risk it. Today she gets the driver to stop outside Number 28 Pall Mall—as a measure of discretion—but