It was just possible that Harry and Francis craved for madder music and stronger wine than the China tea and baked beans, the arguments and rather intelligent jokes, provided by the friends of Celia and Sophia. Also, Harry was tired of kissing these young women, whom he had known for some time; while Francis not only thought them unattractive but would have been afraid to kiss them even if he had; they were all too old and too clever.

None of Sophia’s intelligent friends took any notice when they were proposed to by Harry; they laughed, patted him and said ‘Bless you, no I won’t,’ while the unintelligent ones fell rather miserably in love with him and bored Sophia very much by asking her if she thought Harry Really Cared? Sophia’s two stock replies to this question, given according to the seriousness of the case, were, ‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment’ and ‘Good god, of course not.’

But with the introduction of the beer and the development of that dreary festival known as a beer party, Harry and Francis got more kick out of the impromptu gatherings. Faces which Harry had known since he was twelve grew hazy, mysterious and freshly alluring when seen through a fog of beer. Francis derived much pleasure from sitting in a corner playing his quiet, sad little songs to himself on the ukulele while sipping his beer and deciding that he was a sexual maniac. No one, he felt, could have such passions and not be.

Sophia used to get rather bored at the beer parties. She did not like beer. It was a task to her to get through a glass of the stuff. She did not like kissing the earnest and talkative young men which were the chief amorous fare provided for the young women at the beer parties, nor did she want to kiss the hearties. It was true that none of them wanted to kiss her, after she had dodged away once or twice or carefully explained that she did not like being kissed, but that annoyed her, too. She would often wander out for a walk on the Heath among the buds and starlight while a beer party was in progress, wondering if she were abnormal until she forgot her boredom and her speculations in the beauty of the night sky.

‘We really must have the relations to tea next Saturday,’ said Sophia one evening in the middle of May. ‘They keep on clamouring.’

‘I’ve got a matinée, of course,’ said Harry, very pleased.

‘Need we have Angela?’ implored Francis.

‘Yes, we need. If we don’t there’ll be a fuss and she’ll have to come later, and that’ll be worse. Much better to polish them all off at once.’

‘How long do you think they’ll stay?’

‘Hours, I expect. Never mind; we’ll have a lovely tea with prawns and watercress and éclairs.’

‘Have you had that stair seen to yet?’

‘I keep on meaning to … and the table leg, too. It really isn’t safe. I’ll try to remember tomorrow evening, on my way back from work.’