‘There are situations in life,’ said Mrs Pinkerton, ‘face to face with which one is powerless.’ Though she only meant that in the struggle for life one is sorely handicapped by the obligations of nobility. Tessa and Sydney gathered that Mrs Pinkerton was prostrated. After a blank little silence intended to express the inexpressible they murmured a solicitous ‘Good night’ and slipped through the door.

James Milton met them coming out. The asceticism of a lifetime in such matters had drawn him after ten minutes from his bath. He had stood and steamed in the warm air, then scrubbed himself dry and got into his dressing-gown sooner than he had expected. The water now receding from a rich black rim along the sides of the bath had done its work; he felt his own man again, clear-brained and vigorous. He looked forward to stretching out his limbs – cramped by last night in the train – in a bed again, when once he had unpacked and come to terms with his ridiculous room. He hoped to sleep till the palm trees outside were posed in blue air and white sunshine; when, on opening his eyes, a first picture should spring to them brilliantly, vivid, as he leant from his window, with all the vividness of ideality. He still had a childish pleasure in arriving at places at night, as though he had been brought there blindfold. Humming a Gregorian chant he clicked back the bolt sharply and came face to face with two ladies, one in a dressing-gown, emerging simultaneously from an opposite room.

Tessa, horrified, fled down the corridor; they heard her door slam. Sydney stared. She did not see why she should retreat, as she momentarily expected Milton to do so, and she could not help being amused at his discomfiture. Milton looked boiled, his face, neck and ears were bright scarlet; his fine hair stood erect and his damp moustache drooped at the ends like a sea-lion’s. He clasped his clothes and towels against him in an ungainly bundle.

Milton also stared; it did not occur to him to retreat and there seemed nowhere to go to. He felt quite sure he had met Sydney before. Her dark eyebrows, square forehead and arrogant chin seemed already familiar. On this evening of strangeness and new impressions she was out of place, stepping out as she did from among his own recollections. Unaware of himself he bowed gravely, while in the doorway behind her horrified faces appeared for the moment, then vanished again.

5

Picnic

THE PARTY FOR Mr Lee-Mittison’s expedition was assembling as directed in the lounge, at the foot of the stairs. They stood in a group, eyeing one another a little blankly. Veronica Lawrence came downstairs, twisting her scarf round her throat nonchalantly and pulling down her felt hat over her eyes. Mr Lee-Mittison clicked the lid of his watch at her playfully.

‘Oh, sorry!’ cried Veronica. ‘Am I keeping you all?’