“Smacked? No, of course not. Do you cry only when you get smacked?”
The child pondered for a few moments.
“I never cry,” he said firmly. “Not even when somebody smacks me.”
“That’s good,” Miss Prim heard herself say. “I mean, sometimes you need to have a cry, but it’s good not to cry over just anything.”
“Maybe I could cry in a war,” reflected the child. “In a war I could probably do it. It’s probably justified then.”
“Completely justified,” she assured him.
“Hey,” said Septimus, seeing the tears sliding silently down her cheeks. “I’d rather you didn’t cry so much.”
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige. Unlike you, I cry in peacetime as well.”
The boy observed her flushed face closely and then ran his eye over all the cosmetics bottles on the mantelpiece.
“What can I do to make you stop crying?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” replied Miss Prim, touched. “This advice won’t be any use to you now, Septimus, but when you grow up and see a woman crying, remember that the best thing you can do is absolutely nothing.”
“That’s really easy.”
She burst out laughing and started to dry her tears.
“Easy? Wait till you’re older. There’s nothing harder.”
“Going to war is probably harder, and also hunting a whale with a harpoon,” the boy remarked, his attention now drawn by something outside the window.
“Maybe hunting a whale with a harpoon is,” she conceded.
“You know what?” said the child, his gaze now fixed on the floor. “I think we’re going to miss you.”
“And I’m going to miss you,” she murmured. “Come here. Will you give me a kiss?”
The boy recoiled.
“No,” he said firmly, “no kisses. I never give kisses. I hate them.”
“I think you’ll get over that too when you’re grown up,” she said, smiling.
“Don’t bet on it,” replied the boy before rushing out.
“So you’re leaving,” sighed Mrs. Rouan, offering Miss Prim a chair at the old marble table in the kitchen.
The librarian sat down and accepted the mug of duck consommé that the cook kindly served her.
“That’s right, Mrs. Rouan, I am.”
A fire was burning cheerfully in the hearth and a stew was simmering on the wood-fired range. Outside, the sun seemed to have hidden itself away and leaden clouds promised a night of snow.
“We’re going to miss you,” mumbled the cook. “I know things haven’t always been easy between us.”
“No, they haven’t,” said the librarian softly.
“I don’t like change, I never have. And to tell you the truth,” the cook glanced furtively into the stewpot, “I don’t like new women in the house. They all have their own ways of doing things, and God knows, as you get older it’s hard to change.”
Miss Prim smiled sweetly.
