She was enjoying herself enormously; she was centre stage with the spotlight full on her face. And, for a moment, seeing the hap­piness on her face, it didn’t seem to matter that the dining-room was so cramped and draughty, that the bright blue wall­paper and the green curtains and the red carpet all quarrelled with each other, that the first course of dinner had been un­palatable and the following courses would be even worse. Nor did it matter that her new dress was far too fussy and frilly and that its colour – a dull ox-blood – might almost have been delib­erately chosen to accentuate the fact that she was approaching forty-five and had never taken enough care of her figure and complexion. It didn’t matter; she had come to life, poor fat silly Sybil had come to life. Most human beings are hurt all the time, even in their sleep the hangmen and the tigers chase them; one never sees them as they really are. And I hadn’t seen Sybil until now; it was as if I’d judged her by her behaviour in the dentist’s chair. Now she wasn’t being hurt for once; she even believed, perhaps, that Mark had changed his ways and she wouldn’t be hurt again. She was happy; so I was released from the irksome­ness of pity and, against all expectations, found that I was enjoy­ing myself. The underdone veal cutlets were almost entirely with­out taste, the peas had a strangely glutinous texture, the ice-pudding was soggy, the Yugoslavian hock had been frozen to death; but they tasted to me as they would to Sybil: they were the materials of the feast, they were the symbols of reconcilia­tion.

Susan talked very little and hardly touched her food. Despite this she too seemed caught up in the spirit of the occasion; it seemed a long time since I’d seen her face so illumined by gentle­ness. I had never seen her look so young; her white organdie dress, despite its low neck, had a First Communion look about it. It was impossible to believe that she’d borne two children, I thought with possessive pride; and then, almost with fear, I rec­ognized the gentleness for what it was. Susan was maturing, Susan was being Mother, Susan had helped Mark and Sybil, Susan had brought them together again. I felt my respect for her growing into something like veneration; she’d become a better person than ever she’d allowed herself to be and suddenly – to admit it gave me a curious sense of release – she’d become a far better person than I was.

Sybil sighed. “I’m very happy, sitting here with my husband and my friends. I feel we’ve weathered one hell of a storm. Don’t you, darling?”

“Yes, dear,” Mark said. “Yes, indeed.”