At first Charles had anticipated a good deal of embarrassment in the situation of a ménage à trois. He had arranged for his bed­room to be at the other end of the loft, and had fixed a second ladder from the yard so that if he returned late at night he might be able to get to it without entering their main living-quarters, where Froulish and Betty slept. He had also felt rather nervous in Betty’s presence for the first few days; he had little experience of the particular type of slut she represented, and was afraid that if given any encouragement she might offer him a share in her favours—the last thing he wanted either in the present or in any foreseeable future.

He need not have worried. Betty seemed wholly wrapped up in Froulish. While taking no apparent notice of him for days on end, she gave so little attention to anything else that Charles was finally convinced that this was the case. She had no recreations, and, except for half-an-hour’s shopping each morning, never even went out, except on the one day a week when she absented herself on a visit to some vaguely-defined relative in the neighbourhood. As for the elaborate pains he took to safeguard their privacy, they were repaid with an attitude of mingled amusement and indiffer­ence. Froulish even unbent so far as to inform him that his trouble was unnecessary and that if he did chance to come in at night he would find them peacefully sleeping, since most of what he chose to describe as ‘the funny stuff’ took place in the afternoon when Charles was out. All in all, it was obvious that the item he had often placed at the head of his undergraduate list of topics to be thought over and got straight—‘Sex’—was still capable of being coolly thought over; he was not going to be rushed into any decisions. And for the moment, emotionally satisfied and physic­ally tired by his work, he felt no need of action in that sphere.

On the whole, money was his biggest worry. After his triumphant beginning, when to earn a few shillings had seemed miraculous, he had soon discovered that the town was already quite well provided with window-cleaners, who had cornered the really profitable markets—the big stores, hotels, and so forth—leaving only the residential quarters. And even here it was noticeable that most householders seemed to have decided to do without professional care for their windows. How often he crunched his way up the gravel drive to some prosperous-looking house, with two cars in the garage, only to have the door-bell answered by the lady of the house—evidently there were no servants—and to be told that they ‘already had a regular window-cleaner’! He knew who that regular window-cleaner was: it was Daddy on his afternoon off from managing the bank.