I looked at Harry’s face: almost imperceptibly, Carruthers was there. One of these days he’d let it show to the wrong person and that thin straight nose – his grandmother’s rather than mine or Susan’s – would have its shape altered for the worse and those dark blue eyes – mine, everyone said, but had mine ever been so cold? – would be ringed by bruised flesh. And I couldn’t save him from being hurt, because I couldn’t communicate with him any longer.

And how much longer would I be able to communicate with Barbara? But that wasn’t any problem; unless I was to make some catastrophic mistake with her we’d always be on a direct line one to the other. She was fidgeting on her seat now, obviously bored; all Barbara’s feelings were obvious, her face was a human face, not a mask or a pudding. Unaware that I was watching her, she put out her hand to tug the pigtail of the little girl in front of her. I frowned at her; she subsided into her seat. She smiled at me, as if to say that she bore me no ill will for the frown; I smiled back. She’d always be the same; the only mistake I could make would be not to love her enough.

You spoil that child, Susan had said, and no doubt would say again. It was a risk I’d have to take. Once Alice, talking about her childhood in Harrogate, told me that I must never be frightened of loving children too much. Her words came back to me: “It’s not being loved enough that spoils children. When you have children, love them all the time. Don’t forget; love them all the time.” I hadn’t forgotten; she’d said too that in the world today for people to discuss the ill-effects of loving children too much was exactly like giving lectures on the dangers of obesity during a famine. There was a comfort in remembering her words; they were my authorization to love Barbara.

The church was, as usual, full. It had always been the rich man’s church – Mark called it the Big Needle – and Canon Tintman could always be relied upon to give his congregation just what they wanted. And what they wanted, to judge from his sermons, was to be assured that they could indeed have their cake and eat it too; he was at his best when castigating the crass materialism of the working-classes and the machinations of international Communism. But I liked him and I liked St. Alfred’s: his voice, beautifully modulated and a little husky, always soothed me no matter whether or not I agreed with him. And the church, de­spite its dampness and mustiness, was obviously prosperous; there was always a positive conservatory-full of flowers on the altar, the floor was spotless and the metalwork always gleaming. And the sunshine this morning had brought out the women’s summer dresses; I seemed to smell, from the younger ones at least, an exciting collective aroma like new morocco. Thinking of all those clean and lightly-clothed bodies I began to play my own variety of Patience. Jean Velfrey, sitting on the right across the aisle, was obviously an ace, if not all four aces; the tiny circle of black straw and net which she was wearing did nothing to hide her hair. In fact, it accentuated the gleaming and gloriously false fairness; Jean was not merely a blonde, she was the blonde, the archetypal popsy, in whose proximity every man not actually moribund straightened his tie and threw his shoulders back. I took my eyes away from her with an effort and looked at Eva Storr. Eva was putting on a little too much weight. Once her black hair and general sleekness had put me in mind of a bird, a starling or a robin, say; now there was a certain stiffness about her contours, and the bird she reminded me of was something larger and more domesticated. Still, a queen at least.