I unbuttoned the front of my coat and the front of my shirt, and sat there in my black lace brassiere, with the moonlight falling on my dun skin, a smooth lunar landscape. He stared at me, and I stared at myself for a while, and then up at the wild romantic sky, where the clouds were still hurrying with the same fluid violence as the brown river. After a while Wyndham said:

“Emma, I like them small. I really do,” and I said:

“I’m glad, because I do, too. Though they look a bit tired, don’t you think?”

“You always look tired, all of you. Doesn’t he let you get enough sleep?”

“It’s the babies. They don’t let me sleep.”

“Poor Emma. That doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Wyndham, I’d better be going or I’ll be late. Now that you mention them.”

And so we set off. On the way back he suddenly said, “I wonder what I would have thought if I had known then that one day I’d be sitting outside with a girl like you,” and I felt that I had once more become a background, though that was fair enough, for he had become a background for me, too. I thought I would not reply, but after about five minutes’ silence I said:

“Had you any idea then of where you would be by now?” and he said:

“Oh, I used to be ambitious. In those days.”

We did not get back, despite my constant reminders, until after the usual time for David’s return. Wyndham dropped me at the end of the street, promising to phone, and I ran home thinking of excuses. However, there was no occasion for excuses, for the moment that I flung open the door I smelled a strong and unmistakable odour of gas. Indeed, it was so strong that it seemed to greet me through the keyhole. I flew up the stairs and into the kitchen. The air was thick with it, and I could tell from the noise before I got there that the oven was on, unlit. I switched it off, pulled open the window and retreated; the whole house stank. The sitting room light was on, so I went in and found David sitting on the sofa reading some theatrical magazine. He looked up blankly as I entered, and said at the sight of my face:

“Hello, Emma, what’s the matter?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled. “Are you trying to commit suicide or something? The whole place is full of gas. Can’t you smell it?”

“Gas?” he said dozily, and with extreme placidity. “Is it really? Oh, is that what it is? I thought there was a funny smell when I came in. I have got a bit of a headache, come to think of it. Do you think that’s what it is?”