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Magazine at Dr Moultrie’s, but never in actuality, for it was not the kind of article made use of by the women of Ashett and Othery. It was a fan made from delicate strips of ivory, rubbed fine as threads and jointed together, I knew not by what means. For some time its beauties and intricacies eluded me, since I was unable to solve the mystery of the opening clip.
    Later, after breakfast, I was able to catch hold of Hob, behind the chicken shed, and ask for his help.
    â€˜Here, Goosey! It works like this,’ he said, easily pushing back the catch with his thumb and flipping the fan expertly open. He then wafted it to and fro, giving me such languishing looks over the top, raising and lowering his brows, eyeing me sideways under his thick, sandy lashes, that I was soon reduced to helpless laughter.
    â€˜Oh, Hoby, you are so funny! Where did you ever learn to do that?’
    â€˜Never you mind, young lady.’ Deftly, he snapped the fan shut and restored it to me. ‘That is how the gay ladies of Bristol go on, and it is no business of yours, not for another ten years.’
    Hoby’s father occasionally toured the western counties in the course of his duties, and would then carry away his son for a few days’ pleasuring.
    â€˜But I say,’ he added, ‘you owe me a good turn, little one, for if Biddy Wellcome had been in the house you’d never have laid a finger on that fan. You had best keep it well hid.’
    Since I dared not conceal the fan anywhere indoors, I stowed it in the hollow of an oak that grew in a little coppice where we used to gather firewood. Here – if nobody else was by – I would luxuriously fan myself, raising my brows, lowering my lashes and glancing sideways out of the corners of my eyes in faithful imitation of Hoby’s performance.
    I did not show my treasure to Mr Bill or Mr Sam. Young as I was, instinct told me that such a toy as a fan would be of no interest to either man. They were absorbed by matters of the spirit, or of the wilderness, cataracts and tempests, rocks and rainbows; a fan, a trivial feminine trifle, would be to them an object of indifference, if not scorn.—Thus early, I taught myself to divide life into compartments, turning a different countenance to each person with whom I came into contact.
    ***

    The next event worthy of record came at the season of Michaelmas when I had achieved, I suppose, my seventh or eighth year. Mr Bill and Mr Sam, deeply mourned by me, had quitted our neighbourhood and sailed to foreign lands; Germany, I believe. In my childish heart their absence was a continual ache; at each street corner, if I went into Ashett, I looked for Mr Sam’s floating black locks and flashing eyes, Mr Bill’s Roman nose and lofty height; I could not truly believe that they would never come back, and I made endless forlorn plans for the celebration of their return, tales that I would relate to them, secret wonderful places I would show them; I do not know how many years it took me to understand that none of these plans would come to fruition.
    Meanwhile the two babes, Thérèse and Polly, had grown into small, fair, curly-headed children, wholly unalike in their natures, but resembling each other in one respect, in that both were unusually late in learning to talk. Biddy Wellcome, as she slopped about her careless housework, never troubled to address them except to bawl out a command or prohibition; that, I suppose, may have been one reason for their lack of linguistic facility. And Polly, like her mother, was naturally stupid, slow at learning anything, even when it was to her advantage to do so. Thérèse (whose awkward foreign name had long since, by everybody in Byblow Bottom, been abbreviated to Triz) was, conversely, very far from stupid, but she remained delicate and somewhat listless; would sooner forgo some treat than be obliged to take trouble for it. So she did not bestir herself to speak, seeing