‘I must do something. There’s the river, of course. I’ve often thought of that. Just finish everything. But it’s so cold and wet. I don’t think I’m brave enough. I’m not brave really.’

She turned into the Registry Office.

‘Good morning, Mrs Lambert. I’m afraid we’ve no daily post.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Joyce. ‘I can take any kind of post now. My friend, whom I lived with, has–gone away.’

‘Then you’d consider going abroad?’

Joyce nodded.

‘Yes, as far away as possible.’

‘Mr Allaby is here now, as it happens, interviewing candidates. I’ll send you in to him.’

In another minute Joyce was sitting in a cubicle answering questions. Something about her interlocutor seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she could not place him. And then suddenly her mind awoke a little, aware that the last question was faintly out of the ordinary.

‘Do you get on well with old ladies?’ Mr Allaby was asking.

Joyce smiled in spite of herself.

‘I think so.’

‘You see my aunt, who lives with me, is rather difficult. She is very fond of me and she is a great dear really, but I fancy that a young woman might find her rather difficult sometimes.’

‘I think I’m patient and good-tempered,’ said Joyce, ‘and I have always got on with elderly people very well.’

‘You would have to do certain things for my aunt and otherwise you would have the charge of my little boy, who is three. His mother died a year ago.’

‘I see.’

There was a pause.

‘Then if you think you would like the post, we will consider that settled. We travel out next week. I will let you know the exact date, and I expect you would like a small advance of salary to fit yourself out.’

‘Thank you very much. That would be very kind of you.’

They had both risen. Suddenly Mr Allaby said awkwardly:

‘I–hate to butt in–I mean I wish–I would like to know–I mean, is your dog all right?’

For the first time Joyce looked at him. The colour came into her face, her blue eyes deepened almost to black. She looked straight at him. She had thought him elderly, but he was not so very old. Hair turning grey, a pleasant weatherbeaten face, rather stooping shoulders, eyes that were brown and something of the shy kindliness of a dog’s. He looked a little like a dog, Joyce thought.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I thought afterwards–I never thanked you.’

‘No need. Didn’t expect it. Knew what you were feeling like. What about the poor old chap?’

The tears came into Joyce’s eyes. They streamed down her cheeks. Nothing on earth could have kept them back.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh!’