"She's fallen by the way."
"You'd think," said Mrs. Crabbe, "she'd behave herself a speck, after
the life she's had."
Mrs. Grumble also was of the opinion that Mrs. Wicket had done wrong in
allowing herself to care for Noel Ploughman. For it seemed to the
gossips that Mrs. Wicket's life was, by rights, no longer her own to do
with. She was the earthly remains of a sinner; she had no right to
enjoy herself.
Two days later Noel Ploughman enlisted, "for the duration of the war."
His grandmother accepted the congratulations of Mrs. Crabbe and the
sympathy of Mrs. Barly with equal satisfaction. It seemed to her that
she had done her duty as she saw it. But when Noel was killed in
France a year later, she felt that Mrs. Wicket had killed him. "Now,"
she croaked to Mrs. Crabbe, "I hope she's satisfied."
She seemed to be; she took the news of Noel's death with curious calm.
It was almost as if she had been expecting it, looking for it . . . one
might have thought she had been waiting for it. . . . After a while,
she began to sing again.
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