My father-in-law’s Sunday morning sherry parties were some­thing of an institution in Warley. He gave about ten a year, gen­erally on the first Sunday of the month; the number of times one was invited was a pretty good index in Warley of how one stood socially, or of how one stood with the Browns, which amounted to the same thing. It was a convenient way of working off social obligations and at the same time was a sort of screening process; if you were invited to a Sunday morning sherry party it didn’t necessarily mean that you’d be invited to dinner, but if you hadn’t been invited to a Sunday morning sherry party then it meant that you didn’t exist as far as the Browns were concerned.

Susan and I, being members of the family, had a standing invitation, which I knew better than to refuse. But that Sunday morn­ing I should have much preferred a pint of bitter at the Clar­endon. Incautiously I said as much to Susan as we were driv­ing away from St. Alfred’s.

“I’m sorry you feel like that,” she said.

I changed down for the sharp turn into St. Clair Road. “Noth­ing for you to feel sorry about,” I said. “It was just a stray thought.”

“It was a peculiar stray thought,” she said. “You’re going to a sherry party with me but you’d rather go to a pub without me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you never like me to go to the Clarendon.”

“You’ve never said you wanted to go.”

“I don’t want to go,” she said. “But you do. Why don’t you drop me at Daddy’s and then go back into the town? All your irresistible pub friends. All your damned constituents. All your admirers. I’ll tell Daddy why you couldn’t come—”

“Tell him to stuff himself,” I said.

“That’s pretty,” she said. “You always express yourself so nicely, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s forget it.”

She didn’t answer; when I glanced at her I saw to my surprise that she was crying. I turned to the right and then stopped the car on Royden Lane, a narrow and rocky cart-track south of Poplar Road.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing,” she said.

I gave her my handkerchief. “There must be something. Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m all right,” she said.

I put my arm round her. “You mustn’t cry in that pretty dress.”

“I’m not a good wife,” she said. “You’d be better off without me.”

“Hush, baby,” I said. I took the handkerchief from her and gently wiped her eyes. “We’ll stay here and smoke a cigarette and admire the view. There’s no hurry.”

“It’s quiet here,” she said.