“You could not possibly be right,” said Anonyma.  “Good-morning.”

Anonyma, on her return to the inn, was very generous with “word-vignettes” dealing with Nature.  Her Family during supper was not left in ignorance as to the Peace and Meaning of the Sea, and the Parallel between Waves and Generations, and the Miracles of the Mist, and the Tranquil Musing of the Beaches, and the Unseen Imminence of the Downs.  “It would make a wonderful background to a short story,” said Anonyma, and then she stopped rather abruptly.  Her silence after that might have struck the Family as strange, had it not coincided with the arrival of the evening paper, which turned the listeners’ thoughts to less beautiful matters.

“Air raid,” said Cousin Gustus.  “I prophesied quite a long time ago that we should have another raid, but nobody ever listens to what I say.  Two horses killed somewhere in the Eastern Counties.”

“I thought Somewhere was a town in France, ha-ha,” said Mrs. Russell.

“Was London attacked?” asked Mr. Russell.  “I’m rather anxious about—­St. Paul’s....”

Anonyma rose to the surface again.  “I had such a wonderful talk with a ’bus-conductor once about his experiences during a raid.  Such an intelligent man.  I dearly love ’bus conductors, such an interesting and vivacious class.  I should feel it an honour to be intimate with one.  He told me in the most vivid terms how a bomb fell in the street in front of his ’bus, blowing the preceding ’bus to atoms.  He told me how his driver turned the ’bus in what he called ’The spice of ‘arf a crown,’ and plunged into a side street.  He said that he could see the Zeppelin balanced on its searchlights like ‘a sausage on stilts,’ and when it was directly above them, the top of his ’bus was suddenly cleared of people as if by magic, except for one man who put up an umbrella and ’sat tight.’  I pitied the conductor, it must have been a terrible experience, his eyes were starting from his head,—­bulging like a rabbit’s,—­he said he had a wife and baby up Leyton way, and that he was so worried about them that he frequently called out his list of destinations the wrong way round.”

“Look here,” said Mr. Russell, “I think I’d better go up and see about—­”

“Nonsense,” said his wife.  “I refuse to go to London until the moon is there to protect me, as it were.  So comic to look upon a heavenly body as a practical protection.  I will not allow you to run needlessly into danger.  Only this morning you were making plans to go to Cornwall, naughty boy.”

“No, but—­”

“Darling, I insist,” said Mrs. Russell.  “Cornwall it is for the present.  If you say another word I shall smack you and put you in the corner, ha-ha.”

Cornwall it was.

The Family drew near to its destination on a misty day.  The sun shone not at all, but occasionally showed its bare pale outline through a veil of cloud.  The road in front of Christina was so dim that Mr. Russell could people it for himself with imaginations.  Now a knight in armour stood at the next corner, now a phantom sea gleamed over the curve of the road, now he saw great slim ghosts beckoning him on.