Having tackled the problem she had dreaded the most, she returned to Orange Street almost gaily. Once inside the house, she plucked up her courage and went to the kitchen to tell her landlady that she was no longer employed by the Peabody Academy.

Mrs Stockyard was a small fat woman with sharp dark eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, who provided her lodgers with breakfast and nothing more. The first time she had carried the tray of porridge and tea into Miss Trent’s room she had explained brusquely that she had what she described as ‘a little baking job’, so preferred that her lodgers – Miss Trent herself, a shy young man called Frank Bloggs who worked for the railways, and a retired seaman – should remain in their own rooms and not invade her kitchen, even at breakfast time.

So now, as she hovered in the doorway, Miss Trent glanced curiously around the room for from the way her landlady guarded it one would have thought it must contain rare or beautiful things. However, this was plainly not the case. The floor was quarry-tiled, a large wooden table in the middle was flanked by four bentwood chairs, and the large dresser contained a motley assortment of cheap china. The fire in the closed range did little to raise the temperature, and Miss Trent reflected that she must get this interview over quickly and return to her own room so that she might light her paraffin stove and get the chill of the December afternoon out of her bones.

She waited for her landlady to offer her a chair, but the invitation did not come, so she moved hesitantly forward and smiled at the older woman. Mrs Stockyard did not return the smile, and raised her grizzled eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘I’ve been meanin’ to have a word with you. As I understand it you’re movin’ into a flat share commencin’ first January. Well—’

Miss Trent cut across her. ‘That’s right; I said I’d be going on the first of January, but I’m afraid that’s changed. I am no longer working at the Peabody Academy, so—’

The landlady interrupted in her turn. ‘Oh ho, so you’ve changed your mind, have you?’ she said nastily. ‘Well, you’re too late, Miss Glenys Trent; I were going to say that young Mr Bloggs has a pal wantin’ good cheap accommodation, so knowin’ as you was leavin’ I let him put down a week’s rent and he moves in the day you move out. Which is the first of January as agreed, and I want that room spick and span when you go.’ She looked Miss Trent up and down. ‘I ought to take a week’s rent from you for changin’ your mind and askin’ to stay on, but since you can’t I’ll waive me usual practice and let you go as arranged.’

She stared triumphantly at Miss Trent and her lodger reflected that it was the first time she had seen her landlady actually smiling. But what a nasty smile, she told herself, turning to leave the room. The woman was actively delighted to think she could thwart someone so easily. Miss Trent’s hand was actually on the kitchen doorknob before she thought of a retort. ‘Well, that’s fine, Mrs Stockyard,’ she said breezily. ‘I’m afraid, however, that you jumped to the wrong conclusion. I wasn’t going to ask you if I might extend my stay; in fact I was going to tell you that I would be leaving a day earlier than planned. Good afternoon.’