Russell removed James’s book from the chair, dropped it on the grass, and sat down. He looked sideways at his mother, and then shifted his position so that he could see the garden. Constance went on sewing, apparently unaware of his restlessness. Finally he lay back in the chair and looked at the sky. After a moment, however, he turned his head again, and said abruptly: “Be kind to Miranda this summer.” He felt a little awkward, delegating to his mother the task he had been incapable of performing himself.

“Well of course,” replied Constance, too readily. “It’s why I suggested she come here. You know I’m devoted to her.”

You’re a hard, frivolous woman, Russell thought. “You’re very kind,” he said.

“Not at all. It was the least I could do.”

And therefore you did it, he observed. “Miranda’s unworldly,” he said. “She has no idea of looking after herself.”

If he’s worried about James, Constance thought with justifiable edginess, he should stay here himself; how could I possibly interfere in that? “Don’t you worry,” she told him. “We’ll take care of her.”

How can I leave Miranda to this, Russell wondered. He said: “I’ll write as soon as I get there.”

“Russell.” Constance laid down her sewing and looked at him. “Is there anything I can do for you? If you aren’t going to work for all these months, you may need some money.”

Oh Christ, Russell thought, she’s not going to take it into her head to behave well. His antagonism to his mother was too deeply rooted to allow her any act of disinterested kindness. He said aloofly: “Thank you, Mother. No.”

“If I can give you anything,” she went on, “you would only have to ask.”

But you would have to ask, Russell noted remorselessly. He would not meet Constance’s earnest look. Of all her expressions, it was the one with which he was least familiar. He preferred to think of her more usual aspects—arch, superficial, peremptory: those moods of his mother’s which he now found all the more infuriating because he had, as a boy, so greatly admired them.

No less defeated than Miranda, Constance took up her sewing. “I hope you’ll get what you want from this trip.”

Russell, relenting, gave her a wry, intimate smile he could never have given Miranda. “The main thing seems to be to get away … since all the things I should face up to are here. I feel like a fugitive from justice.”

Constance was herself again. She sighed. “We are all that,” she said.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get out of here?” Russell asked, having parked the car, miraculously, in a short space outside the station. He turned off the engine.