She wondered what Stephen would think, if he knew. But Stephen had introduced Wendell to her. He was broad-minded, too, and—after all, since her life with Stephen was at an end it didn’t matter what he would think.

Only she wished that Wendell’s car, with her in it, had not drawn up beside Cynthia’s in a hold-up in Piccadilly that day last week. At the time she had felt ashamed to be with Wendell; Cynthia’s cold bow had made her feel hot and wretched. Again she had argued herself out of that state of mind. What right had Cynthia to criticise her actions? Cynthia of course was prejudiced. Elizabeth was very glad Mrs. Ramsay had not been there also. You could not help being fond of her; it would be dreadful if she bowed as Cynthia had bowed, as to a chance acquaintance—no, not even as cordially as that.

Towards the end of August, when Miss Arden was still out of town, Elizabeth again fell a victim to influenza. She fought her illness for days, but at last succumbed, aching from head to foot, wanting only to sleep, never to wake again.

Mrs. Cotton thought she should write to Miss Arden. Lonely and unhappy though she was, Elizabeth would not do this. She did not want her aunt; she thought she wanted no one.

Wendell was away, Sarah, and Mr. Hengist. Only the doctor came to see Elizabeth, and Mrs. Cotton. She thought, Last time I had ’flu how good Stephen was to me. People sent me flowers too, and they rang up to enquire. It seems as though no one cares now. Mater sent great Madonna lilies . . . like my wedding bouquet . . . How heavy their scent was ... in the church.

It was funny how desperately ill influenza could make you feel. You only wanted to die; you could get no rest, and the hot August nights seemed interminable. Silly to have stayed in town all August. She had never done that before. Those holidays of her childhood! Cromer and St. Margaret’s Bay, and Swanage where you met everyone you least wanted to meet. All that was long ago, ever so far away, lost in the past.