A small crowd gathers to fuss over her. Through her lashes, she sees Edith at the glove table picking out half a dozen pairs. She pushes them down into her long outer coat pockets and then moves quickly and quietly to the other side of room. She scoops up some fur-edged gloves and winds several scarves into a tight ball, shoving them into the inside coat pockets. Her blisters are obviously stinging her heels and she’s had enough already. As a parting thought, she picks up a pretty brooch from a display of glittering silver marcasite jewellery before disappearing from Ruby’s squinted eyeline to the staircase and down, out of the store through the solid wooden doors. There, Ruby knows, the doorman will usher her onto the street with a smile and a slight bow. Edith will thank him graciously enough, but in a suitably haughty tone. Being too familiar with men like that only leads them to pass comment. Besides, if she is not careful, he will try to engage her in conversation – and she needs to be away.

Ruby opens her eyes wide and expresses some dismay at having caused a scene. She reassures everyone that she is quite well but accepts the glass of water that has been brought for her with a weak smile. Perhaps she might try to stand? Her legs wobble, and she sits down for a moment before attempting again. She will go home straight away, she agrees. She’ll catch the omnibus directly and have a lie down for the remainder of the afternoon. She acquiesces as the shop assistant makes suggestions, offers diagnoses. Yes, Ruby decides, recognising her means of escape, it probably is the monthly curse. She should have realised because it always makes her light-headed. She really ought to be on her way, to take care of herself.

At this, the small crowd predictably parts and drifts away. The women are sympathetic, but there is nothing more that they can do except encourage her to stay warm and go to bed.

Ruby moves slowly, carefully, as one who might be unwell or at least in discomfort. She makes use of her new umbrella, leaning on it as if it is a walking stick as she takes the first couple of steps. Then, gingerly, she crosses the floor to the stairwell, growing stronger with every yard she takes. If it were not for the fact that she is almost certain she is being watched, she would pick up a few items on the way out.

Instead, she contents herself with the umbrella – at least on this floor.

She trots down the stairs to the ground floor, where she might find a few things to take with her. She has, she reflects, already contributed an unintended twenty pounds to the Forties today, so she’s not done badly – but a compact mirror, a few lipsticks or a pot of rouge might please Annie Richmond more than an umbrella.