‘Well, there now,’ exclaimed a lady indignantly, dropping her needlework into her lap in holding both hands out. ‘Then why should she want to come out to a hotel? She certainly is striking-looking, but I would have every sympathy with her and make every effort to be pleasant to her if she were lonely. One knows oneself that is insupportable. As winter comes on with those long evenings one begins to feel hardly human, sitting evening after evening in an empty room. One can’t always be going out or visiting people or inviting people to come to one. If I shut my drawing-room door, I begin to feel restless at once; it feels so unnatural shutting oneself in with nobody. If I open it, one hears the servants laughing, or something to worry one. I am fond of reading, but I always begin to feel that books are so bad; then of course I realize, well, it’s not fair, is it, to expect a book to take the place of human society? If the telephone bell rings, to hear a voice and then be cut off simply unsettles one; and if it doesn’t ring the whole evening, one begins to worry and imagine things about one’s friends. Once I sat with the door open and, believe me, I could hear four different clocks ticking – I counted them – in different parts of the flat. It’s not, of course, that I’m nervous, but I really begin to feel – if you’ll understand my saying anything so extraordinary – as if I didn’t exist. If somebody does come to the door or the telephone does ring, I’m almost surprised to find I’m still there. One would go mad if one were not able to get abroad.’

She looked round with a shiver of retrospection at the semicircle which was her pleasant asylum. The others expressed their entire agreement. What they had all escaped was terrible.

‘But Mrs Kerr,’ said one, ‘seems to enjoy that – she’s a divorcée.’

‘No, he died.’

‘Fancy! She doesn’t give one a bit that impression …’

‘Isn’t there a son?’

‘Yes, she has a nearly grown-up son. I can’t think why she doesn’t make a home for him.’

‘But if one does make a home for anybody one is still very much alone. The best type of man is no companion.’

‘Still, he is someone there.’