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When she had seen him disappear over the brow of the hill she turned and walked swiftly down to Oddley Green. She was trembling, shuddering with fury and as she went her walk insensibly became a run. She felt like a hare with the hounds at its heels, and a terror was upon her that before she reached safety she might see Ingpen.

Clive’s car stood before her cottage. He was waiting for her. He was there, standing at the window, watching her, as she came up the path. She stood for a moment in the hall and put her stick very softly into the stand, as though afraid of waking someone. As she entered the drawing-room Clive turned to her from the window but he did not move towards her. Miriam had set the tea-table in readiness; the kettle whispered on its stand. Absurdly, grotesquely, she heard herself saying, as she paused by the door and glanced at her son: ‘Will you have some tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Clive. He did not move. He watched her as she sank down on a chair beside the door. ‘I want to talk to you, Mother,’ he said. ‘Are you too tired? Would you rather go up and rest first? I can wait. I can wait for as long as you like.’

‘No; I am not too tired,’ said Monica. She could