There was the sound of breaking glass.

Molly was too used to family quarrels to be embarrassed.

“Come on,” she said. “If we don’t get in now, he’ll walk out.”

George, uneasy at the intrusion, knocked at the door. A sudden silence followed the sound of his fist on the door, and they realized that throughout Bernard’s emotional outburst Mrs. Cranshaw had continued talking. Only now, with the prospect of strangers to entertain, did she stop.

She came to the door to let them in. There was a pause before she opened the door, and Molly could see that she had used the time to repair her make-up. She wore bright, irregularly applied lipstick and there were two feverish spots of rouge on her cheeks. She had the face of a marionette.

Molly automatically took charge.

“We’ve come to see your son, Mrs. Cranshaw,” she said briskly. George, despite the tension of the situation, was amused at the ease with which she assumed the role of social worker. “You won’t mind if we come in?”

It would have been impossible for Mrs. Cranshaw to refuse, but she seemed, in fact, quite pleased to see them. She followed them into the front room, where Bernard Cranshaw was sitting, and began once more to talk. Cranshaw hardly noticed that they were there. He had thrown his glass into fireplace and was watching the remains of the drink run down the tiles and into the carpet. It was obvious that he had not long been home from school. There was chalk dust on his jacket. His face was very flushed. Molly turned and faced Mrs. Cranshaw so that it was impossible for the older woman to come any further into the room.

“Thank you very much,” Molly said. “We’d like to talk to Mr. Cranshaw on his own if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

Mrs. Cranshaw was about to argue, but Molly smiled. It was a gesture so firm and decisive that it was as if Mrs. Cranshaw had been slapped. Looking very old, she turned and left the room, giving a brief, contemptuous glance towards her son. He had begun to pick up the glass, a fumbling and ineffectual attempt to appear normal.

“Leave that now,” Molly said gently. “We can clear that up later. We want to talk to you.” She sat on the chair next to his and with a gesture of friendship reached over and touched his arm. George, still uneasy and embarrassed, stood apart and watched.

Cranshaw’s face was still red, and a nerve in his forehead twitched, so that his eyebrows moved in a ridiculous appearance of surprise. He had very thick eyebrows. He was breathing heavily as if he were still angry, but he was making a tremendous effort to grow calm. Molly was talking softly, about the weather and teaching, and living in Rushy, waiting for some of the tension to go, waiting until he was able to talk rationally to her. Then he interrupted her.