But that evening the smell shouldn’t have been there. Mark and Sybil had made it up, they were going to make a new start for the sake of the children. The dinner was to be a feast of re­conciliation, we were, in Sybil’s rather embarrassing words, to break bread together in love and friendship.

As we took our places at the dinner-table, she put her hand­kerchief to her eyes.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Mark asked.

“I’m so happy,” she said. “Here we are in our own home, having dinner with our friends – I can hardly believe it.”

There wasn’t much one could say in reply to that; I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile, and took a spoonful of soup. It was lukewarm and had a curiously gritty texture; its taste was vaguely of chicken fat.

Sybil patted my hand. “Forgive me,” she said. “It’s ridiculous of me to be so weepy even now. But we women are queer kittle-kattle, aren’t we, Mark?”

Mark nodded. He was looking a little glassy-eyed; I wondered if he’d been fortifying himself with something rather stronger than the sherry the rest of us had had.

“You feel things more,” he said. “We’re coarser-grained crea­tures altogether, aren’t we, Joe?”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. I took a second spoonful of soup; it wasn’t any better than the first.

“I’m so grateful to you and Susan,” Sybil said. “But for you, we wouldn’t be here now. Bless you, darlings.”

“And especially Susan,” Mark said.

“We ought to drink their health,” Sybil said.