Sophia knew that she was not what is called a good manager. She did not waste money; it was spent on food, and other necessities, but she was lavish. She could not bear to think that anyone living beneath her roof had not more than enough to eat, and she liked the house to shine with rosy lights, and with a fire on a grey evening. Her days in the country cost money, and so did the concerts to which she now treated herself, and the presents she gave her friends. She loved to give, and to buy flowers as they marched in delicate procession round the curve of the year.

She did not get into debt; but that was her only piece of prudence. Otherwise, she spent carelessly and royally, but not gaily. She worried.

They had not yet asked Mr Marriot for a second advance from the practice’s takings; money was being saved for them, and it was her only pleasant thought. But so far no one had offered a high enough price for the practice, and, as Uncle Preston told her when he talked to her on the telephone, its value was growing less every week, because its numbers were going down.

Then he would ask her how much she and Harry and Francis put into the bank each week, and though she did not plainly answer this question, he often sent her little brochures about Home Safes, and National Savings Certificates and even, as a humble last effort, Stamp Deposit slips. In his telephone talk with her only yesterday evening he had said that he supposed she must be quite a rich woman by now, heh! heh! heh!

Poor Sophia did not scorn Home Safes and all the paraphernalia of security. She wanted them, but she could not see her way to getting them.

She thought of the future. Harry and Francis were enjoying life too much at present to think of more than a few months ahead, but she thought often and sadly about their middle age and their old age, and wondered if Francis would die of consumption and Harry take to gambling.

This anxiety was her inheritance from the Gardens. They cut her out of their wills, but they left her other, invisible legacies. They passed on to her their dark weights of the spirit and their nervous fears, and she suffered but could not escape.

As she put the dish of sausages on the table Francis woke up.

‘Hullo. Been asleep,’ said he, moving his lips uncertainly as a baby does when it awakes.

‘That will do you good, darling. It’s a sign of greatness to be able to go to sleep anywhere. Napoleon could.’

It is also a sign of nervous exhaustion, but she did not think it necessary to tell him this; and, having washed themselves sternly in cold water, they sat down and ate their supper in comfortable silence. Harry had a matinée today, and usually took a sandwich in town between the shows on such days, so he did not come in. He would be back about twelve o’clock when the party, heaven help all concerned, was at its height. It was his party in fact, given in honour of Emily and Edward, whose new show was being a success. It was really Mr Hensatt’s show, but the Gardens always called it Edward’s show.