She was shaking with temper. “You’ve pushed me around all your life. You’ve treated me like a puppet, you treat your grand­son like one, you try to boss everyone. You’re a bully and a tyrant. I won’t have you here telling me what to do. And I won’t have you talk to Joe like that. He’s still my husband.”

“Not for much longer if I can help it.” He put his arm round her; she shook it off impatiently. “You’re all wrought up, love, you don’t know who your real friends are. I warned you against him from the start—”

“Yes, you did,” she said in a quieter voice. “Perhaps if you hadn’t tried so hard to stop it, I would never have married him.”

“I’ll deal with him. I’ll make him suffer. You’re too soft hearted, Susan, that’s your trouble.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Father. Or about Joe.”

“Not know my own daughter! I know you inside out. And him, too.” He scowled at me.

“Do you know why he’s leaving me?”

“You needn’t tell him, Susan,” I said.

She stamped her foot. The childish gesture was oddly shock­ing. “I’ve been having an affair with Mark,” she said.

Brown’s face seemed to grow smaller; he swayed forward, then checked himself.

“I don’t believe it,” he said.

“It’s true. Ask Joe.”

He clenched his fist. “It’s your fault,” he said to me. “You can’t have been a proper husband to her. It’s your fault.”

“You’d better go now,” Susan said quietly.

“Mark,” he said. “She always wants the worthless ones . . .” He looked round the room as if he were surrounded by a hostile mob. “You don’t see,” he said. “I did my best . . .”

He stumbled out, his foot kicking the car keys. They jingled noisily across the parquet floor; he didn’t make any movement to pick them up, nor was there any indication that he’d noticed them.

“I’ll brew you some coffee for the journey,” Susan said.

“I don’t want it.” Suddenly my knees gave way. I sat down and began to cry.

“Why did you do it, Susan? Why did you have to do it?”

She knelt down beside me and stroked my hair gently. “Poor Joe,” she said. “Poor Joe is tired.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She took my handkerchief from my breast pocket and wiped my eyes.

“Poor Joe,” she said. “Being sorry won’t help us now.” She took my hand. “Come with me while I make the coffee.” I let her take me into the kitchen.

Watching her setting out the cups, warming the milk, filling the percolator, there was no need to talk any more. I had even a feeling of contentment: there was nothing left to happen to me.