Blindfold by Patricia Wentworth

joyfulness, “Oh, it is—it is—and I didn’t know you! Did you know me? At once—just like that? It was very clever of you, because I’ve grown ever so much. But I ought to have known you, because you haven’t changed a bit.”
    â€œNor have you, really,” said Miles.
    At this point he became aware that a milkman emerging from the area of No. 30 was regarding them with an expression of gloom. He was a perfectly worthy young man of the name of Edward Jones, and the housemaid of No. 30 had just informed him that she wasn’t coming out with him any more because she liked Bob Stevens a lot better than him, so there. In these circumstances the sight of Miles and Kay holding hands and gazing at one another in the middle of the pavement was more than flesh and blood could bear. His expression became so homicidal that Miles reluctantly let go and, taking Kay by the arm, began to walk her along.
    â€œWhere are you going? And can I come with you, or will you turn me down like you did the other chap and ask that ferocious milkman to protect you?”
    â€œI’d rather have you than the milkman. I was going on a bus.”
    â€œWhat bus?”
    â€œJust any bus—just for the ride. It’s a lovely day.”
    â€œAll right, we’ll go on a bus together.”
    Kay’s heart beat joyfully. Miles—as well as a bus ride, and a fine day, and her afternoon out. It was almost too much. She felt as if there were wings under her feet.
    She said “lovely!” and then, “Miles, tell me all about all of you. I haven’t heard anything, not for years.”
    â€œMy mother’s gone,” said Miles.
    She said, “I know. When Aunt Rhoda died I wrote, and someone wrote back and said she had gone—two years before.”
    â€œShe was very, very fond of you, Kay.”
    Kay was silent for a little. Then she turned a curious beaming look on him and said,
    â€œI love her—always.”
    Miles felt an extraordinary rush of emotion. It was four years since anyone had used that present tense in speaking of Eleanor Clayton. It seemed to bring her very near. He was so suddenly and deeply moved that he found it quite impossible to speak. His hand tightened on Kay’s arm and they walked on in silence.
    When they came to the corner, he began to tell her that George was in India with his regiment, Kitty married and in India too. “And I’ve been over in New York for three years.” And then the story of how he had come over here to try and find out what had happened to a baby who had disappeared nearly twenty years ago.
    They chose their bus, climbed on the top, got a seat right in front, and went on talking. Such a lot can happen in eight years, and it was nearly eight years since Kay had gone sadly away from the only home she had known.
    â€œAnd what did you do then, Kay? Where did you go? You never wrote.”
    Kay looked away over the top of the bus rail to the houses crowding up into the misty blue sky. It hadn’t been misty a moment before, but clear. The mist was in her eyes—the mist of an old weeping for things which she had loved and lost. She said at last,
    â€œI couldn’t write—not until Aunt Rhoda died, and then it was too late.”
    â€œWhere did you go, Kay?”
    Kay said, “Everywhere. We kept moving—three months—four months—six months. We just kept moving on until she died.”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œGetting on for three years ago.”
    She told him about being mother’s help to the Vicar’s wife, and how she had had to leave because they couldn’t afford to keep her.
    â€œThe next place I went to I didn’t like at all. There was a perfectly revolting boy of twenty. His mother spoilt him, and he would come into the nursery, so I simply couldn’t stay. And so I thought I would be a house-parlour-maid, because you get better wages and proper times