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Hester, tossing the end of her shawl over her shoulder. ‘I’m not in the least tired.’

‘I am, then,’ said Clive, and Monica wondered, hearing the note of dryness in his voice, if even his patience had worn thin.

She did not press them to stay. Beset by bitter fears and bitterer self-reproaches, she only prayed that they would go before Ingpen so that she might not be left alone with them. Clive in that case might attempt some strained reconciliation and she knew that she could bear no more.

They all went to the table where whiskey and soda and barley-water were set out and now, as they drank, it was Clive who contrived a few utterances. ‘How’s Robin’s fountain getting on, Mummy?’ he asked, and he politely enquired of Ingpen if there was a good garage at the Old Manor Farm. Dear Clive; he would always try, at least, to help her out. Then they were gone, both kissing her good-night, and for a moment, as she stood by the table looking after them, her mind was filled with the imagination of what they would be saying as they sped away from the evening she had offered them: ‘Rather grisly, wasn’t it?’ That might well be Hester’s sober comment. And Clive might reply: ‘And what an odious man Mummy has picked up. I hope he