After supper Francis retired into the bathroom with his ukulele. His bath would take about an hour and a half, and would be punctuated by songs in his pleasant tenor, while Sophia was cutting sandwiches and wishing she could go for a walk on the Heath instead of having the party, for the may trees were in bloom and the moon was rising.

The food for this party was rather nasty, but Sophia did not care. It was Thursday evening, which meant that none of the three had much money because it was the end of the week, and also that the shops were shut when Sophia tried to buy things on her return to Enbury Heath about six o’clock. The sandwiches were made with fish paste from Eddie-Creab-the-Notorious-Gangster whose shop, of course, was open. It was bright pink and it cost fourpence halfpenny a pot. It had no name. It was just called Fish Paste, as though it were made of all kinds of fishes, as no doubt it was. Sophia rather liked it. She kept eating the sandwich crusts, as she cut them off, with thick dabs of the Fish Paste on them.

There were two pounds of chocolate biscuits, sardine sandwiches, a jar of barley sugar and half a large, dark rich cake made by Celia’s charwoman, who cooked admirably.

And that was all. It was certainly rather miserable food. Sophia felt half ashamed of it, and half that she did not care if it was horrid; and if people did not like it, they could go without. Anyway, the drink would cheer up the provisions.

She had admitted to herself that she did not enjoy these parties, and now felt more resigned to them. Her method of dealing with the parties was to play a passive part; handing food and drink, dancing when asked, drinking as little as possible and avoiding embraces.

This attitude may have satisfied her; it annoyed Harry and even called out mild expressions of disapproval from Francis. It was certainly damping. The presence of one Christian, according to those works of fiction describing the trials of the Early Church in Rome, could take all the kick out of an orgy; and this was rather the effect which Sophia’s passive resistance had upon the revellers at the cottage.

‘She makes me think,’ complained Harry to Francis, ‘of some beastly vicar’s wife being all broad-minded at a night-club.’

It was certainly not the impression which a hostess would wish to give, but Sophia was unconscious that she gave it. She thought that no one noticed her attitude.

By nine the sandwiches were all cut and arranged on the kitchen table with an old damped shirt of Harry’s wrapped round them (the cottage owned no table napkins) to keep them fresh. Francis came out of the bathroom dressed in white flannels, feeling romantic and much restored, and sat on the sofa with the ukulele, to stare out of the open door at a little white and red may tree in flower, strum, and think about Toby.