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Monica went up to London on Saturday, making the cheerless railway journey that plunged one so soon from the menaced countryside into the sordid suburbs. One might pass all one’s life snugly ensconced in the heart of London and remain almost unaware of this encompassing wilderness. She returned to the heart, now, as an outsider, and there was almost a sense of adventure in taking a taxi at the underground station, after the added journey from Liverpool Street. She looked at London and was aware of London, now, as an outsider is aware; just as she looked at and was aware of Clive. A large luncheon-party in Hyde Park Gardens restored to her some of the old sense of adequacy. She saw herself there as a still significant woman to whom black was always becoming, and a friend said over coffee: ‘My dear, you are a marvel.—You look ten years younger than any of us.’

‘Living in the country puts one into cold storage,’ Monica answered. And keeping one’s face set to a ready brightness was preserving, doubtlessly.

After lunch she bought some salted almonds—of which both Clive and Hester were fond—and