"You're quite wrong. You're jumping to conclusions," said Helen, with an
air of indulgence that would have been exasperating had it not been
enchanting. "Things don't happen like that except in novels."

"I've never read a novel in my life," James defended himself.

"Haven't you? How interesting!"

"But I've known a woman knocked down by a bull."

"Well, anyhow, mother wasn't knocked down by a bull. But there was a mad
bull running down the street; it had escaped from the market. And Mr.
Bratt was walking home, and the bull was after him like a shot. Mother
was looking out of the window, and she saw what was going on. So she
rushed to the front door and opened it, and called to Mr. Bratt to run
in and take shelter. And they only just got the door shut in time."

"Bless us!" muttered James. "And what next?"

"Why, I came home from school and found them having tea together."

"And ninety year between them!" James reflected.

"Then Mr. Bratt called every week. He was a widower, with no children."

"It couldn't ha' been better," said James.

"Oh yes, it could," said Helen. "Because I had the greatest difficulty
in marrying them; in fact, at one time I thought I should never do it.