But she was miserable; so wretched that she was sick and frozen with misery; and at the same time she felt callous and flippant. She could not cry, even from shock.

This was the second funeral in six months, and funerals are shocking affairs. Their ritual, the blend of vivid nodding flowers and grand words, and the unbearable facts of loss and corruption, strikes on the nerves without mercy. Sophia knew the routine of a funeral by heart; and thought that never again could she bear to go to one, even if it had been the funeral of Harry or Francis.

The first funeral had been that of her mother, whom Sophia loved better than anyone in the world. Mrs Garden had died from a stroke, and the forces which brought it upon her had gathered during the twenty years of ceaseless worry, fear and unhappiness that had been her married life.

Sophia, whose character and upbringing combined to make her a merciless judge, considered that her father had murdered her mother as surely as if he had shot her through the heart; and that was why she was not sorry that he was dead.

‘Sophia … er … Sophia … !’

Uncle Preston, who was sitting opposite her, had been trying to attract her attention for nearly half a minute, but she refused to hear him. She did hear him with her small pretty ears, but she was not listening with her mind. She was longing to be walking alone over the Heath, kicking at the snow and staring up at the still, brown trees.

‘Uncle Preston is trying to tell you,’ suddenly said Francis in a loud, sarcastic, trembling voice, ‘that your petticoat’s showing.’

Sophia, trying in her turn to be as infuriating as she could, slowly moved her head round until she was staring at Uncle Preston’s prim, anxious face.

‘Your dress, Sophia. It seems to be caught up …’

Sophia slowly looked down at her legs, which were decently veiled in black lisle stockings at one and eleven pence a pair. The rather grubby hem of a white petticoat showed below her skirt. She slowly drew her dress over it, and turned away to the window once more.

Now they had left the crowd behind, and the three cars had stopped crawling; they were smoothly climbing Greenride Hill, and between gaps in the houses and trees London could be seen, dim in the winter haze of the valley. Sophia was glad to be getting near the Heath. She hated Enbury Fields, and never wanted to see it again.

She glanced at Francis. He looked as stony, grim, white and exhausted as she did. He was sixteen and a half, five years younger than she, but this afternoon he looked at once very young and very old, and frighteningly like his dead father. Darling Francis, she thought, he’s hating it. I expect he’ll be sick afterwards. Oh, I am so hungry. I wish I’d remembered to buy some breakfast last night.