They were both silent, and went up more slowly, wondering what they would find to discuss when (quite soon now) they came to the top. The terrace for which they were making had been the scene of profound discussions; there must be something about it, about the tilt of the ground or the way the trees grew. It had not for some time been revisited – in fact, they only seemed to have remembered about it today. Miss Pym now thought that as they both sat down with their faces towards the cool air and their backs against olive trees she would say, ‘Life itself, I think, is very wonderful.’ But for this, she could not help asking, would she find Emily absolutely in tune? … When at last they had really arrived, had shut their parasols and flung down their baskets Miss Pym was surprised, however, to feel ‘Poor Mr Milton!’ torn out of her.

Miss Fitzgerald stopped panting and cried, ‘Yes, I know.’

‘The Lee-Mittisons, among others, are so sorry. You know they are getting up Progressive Games?’

‘I know,’ said Miss Fitzgerald again, and stared out to sea rather absently, rather exclusively as one who could not bring Progressive Games or people who talked about them into focus.

This was not fair of her. ‘Not that I see any reason why they should have made use of him,’ Miss Pym said indignantly.

‘Surely he was capable of looking after himself?’ Miss Fitzgerald suggested, still with the distant manner she wore when anyone ‘talked about men’.

Miss Pym did not believe that he was, or that Emily believed he was, but she said in a cold voice, ‘Obviously.’ The word ‘obviously’ has always a pained and painful sound when used between people who know each other too well. They both listened to it with fear and foreboding and yet felt incapable of making an overture. They wished that they had not come back to the terrace, which under some subtle influence seemed to have changed.

Then an instinct, a touch of genius, made Emily turn her head and say, ‘Eleanor, do you remember the day when we – so nearly lost one another?’

Eleanor remembered walking down the road with Mrs Kerr and the horrible macaroni they had given her for lunch …

‘Emily …’

The Hotel from up here was as small as a doll’s house; shoulder to shoulder they sat and looked down on it. Hand in hand, reunited, in perfect security, they sat and remembered that day.