'
I saw an expression of perplexity and mystification overspread my
mother's sagacious face.
'And in the spring,' continued my father, 'we are going into Wales
to rub.'
'Into Wales, are you?' said my mother, in a tone of that soft voice
whose meaning I knew so well.
My thoughts were continually upon Winifred, now that I was alone in
the familiar spots. I had never seen her nor heard from her since we
parted as children. She had only known me as a cripple. What would
she think of me now? Did she ever think of me? She had not answered
my childish letter, and this had caused me much sorrow and
perplexity.
We did not go into Wales after all. But the result of this
conversation took a shape that amazed me. I was sent to stay with my
Aunt Prue in London in order that I might attend one of the Schools
of Art. Yes, my mother thought it was better for me even to run the
risk of becoming bohemianised like Cyril Aylwin, than to brood over
Winnie or the scenes that were associated with our happy childhood.
In London I was an absolute stranger.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122