These five people worked together in two small rooms, on one of the many corridors of a huge block of offices and chambers, in a narrow turning off Fleet Street, close to Fountain Court and to the little collection of courts and gardens and old houses which is like a charming nest of legal documents boxes lying between Fleet Street and the river.

In her lunch hour in the summer months Sophia liked to sit on Oliver Goldsmith’s tombstone near the Temple Churchyard, under a bright green plane tree, eating a tomato sandwich bought from Dolly’s, the cooked meat shop on the corner, and admiring the thin, vivid grass growing round the base of the Templars’ Church; or looking up at the mild silly face of the little Lamb, with his hoof curled ineffectually round his Flag, who stands above many old doorways there; she could dream over the tulip tree which grows in the wide garden facing the river, and see the leaves fall from the plane tree in Plane Tree Court, and wonder what it must be like to look down into a great bushy head of green as the people can do who live in the highest rooms of the houses in that courtyard.

It was an interesting job, an officeful of nice, cheerful people, and there were peaceful places near the office in which she could rest and dream; but she did wish that it did not take up so much of her time.

CHAPTER XI

As soon as the three were settled in the cottage they became, of course, householders, and no one can be this without attracting a number of satellites and pensioners. People gravitate to a household; this is probably a habit lingering from feudal days when barons kept open hall.

One Saturday morning about half past nine Sophia was sitting alone in the cottage, dipping into Little Women and Good Wives and eating her breakfast. She was occasionally given a Saturday morning off, and this was one of them. The cottage was sunny and quiet; Francis had gone off nearly two hours ago to his job, and Harry had just left for a rehearsal at ten o’clock.

The day was windy, or the door would have stood open, letting in more sunlight. It came in through the open window, pouring on to the disordered breakfast table, Sophia’s steaming cup of tea, her bent head with the short plumes of soft fair hair falling forward on either cheek, the transparent narcissus flowers in a green ginger jar on the table. She sipped her tea, took a bite of bread and butter, smelled the narcissus, turned a page, listened to the stillness, gratifying as many of her senses as possible at the same time.

She was not sure if there had been, a second or two ago, a faint, flat, despairing sort of dab at the front door knocker.

A pause; and then it came again, a little louder but still flat and despairing.