Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia
took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business. But in the
middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think.
She had never heard of anything so cruel before. That poor girl--she must
go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer. But it would be well to
avoid the subject as much as possible. She must think of something to
distract her thoughts. The pony-chaise. It might be the last time they had
a carriage to go out in. But they could not go out driving on the day of
the funeral.

That evening, as they were going to bed, Emily said, lifting her sweet,
pathetic little face, looking all love and gentleness: 'Oh, to think of a
common, vulgar writer coming here, with a common, vulgar wife and a horrid
crowd of children. Oh, Julia, doesn't it seem impossible? And yet I suppose
it is true. I cannot bear to think of it. I can see the horrid children
tramping up and down the stairs, breaking the things we have known and
loved so long; and they will destroy all my flowers, and no one will
remember to feed the poor swans. Dandy, my beloved, I shall be able to take
you with me.' And she caught up the rough-haired terrier and hugged him,
kissing his dear old head. 'Dandy is mine; they can't take him from me, can
they? But do you think the swans belong to them or to us? I suppose it
would be impossible to take them with us if we go to live in London. They
couldn't live in a backyard.'

'But, dearest Emily, who are "they"? You don't know that he is
married--literary men don't often marry. For all you know, he is a handsome
young man, who will fall madly in love with you.'

'No one ever fell in love with me except that horrid old man--how I hate