That night, the night after our arrival, we had been invited to a civic reception by the town, to be held for the company. I think that it was the thought of that which kept me so tolerably gay throughout our settling in; it was certainly not David, who disappeared as soon as we had had breakfast on our first day there, saying he was called for a rehearsal, which I did not believe. He did not reappear all day. So I dressed for this public event alone. I knew that it was going to be entertaining. There is nothing that I enjoy more than watching, from some safe, anonymous position, such as that of wife, the magnificent, sprawling, guerrilla warfare of such absurd human functions, and I have found that where actors are concerned the gaiety for the observer is doubled. I took a great deal of trouble over my appearance, for I, too, wished to look absurd. I wore a black velvet suit, which is perfectly respectable by any standards, if a little smart, and under it a white blouse I had made myself, the front and cuffs of which were covered in tiny, thick starched lace frills. I was very proud of it: it had taken me weeks to make, and the result had a delightful archaic, Victorian photograph quality. As I put it on I decided that I would have to wean Joseph: my breasts were too big. They looked all right, but misrepresentative.

I spent hours trying to put my hair into earphones, but I succeeded in making myself look too hideous even for amusement, so I abandoned the attempt and put it all up on top. Then I got out an old black hat and a sequin bag that I had bought from the old lady who keeps a junk shop round the corner from us in Islington. I had paid half a crown for each, and was gratified to think that I had found a truly suitable occasion for using them. The hat was a very fine straw, with feathers and a black lace rose; the bag, which the old lady had told me used to be her dance bag, was of silver sequins, tarnished by now to a grey and black and ancient dignity. When I had finished, I thought I looked wonderful: they would have difficulty in knowing what to make of me, at least. I could not decide whether the final effect might not be funereal. Certainly I had a bizarre sobriety. I have no colour at all in my flesh, ever: I am dun- and mud-coloured, and you would not think to look at me that blood runs in my veins.

I was just wondering whether to leave for the reception alone when David returned from town, or from wherever else he had been. He walked into the bedroom and took a look at me.

“Emma,” he said, “whatever have you done?”