Reaching the landing, Eden remained conscious of his eyes. If only he would stop. Elyot withered her away with his eyes, still. Almost, but not quite. She was uncomfortably conscious of the remaining core, he did not wither this, the shame, that he continued watching.

I think I’ll lie down, she said. Don’t tell Mother. She’ll only fuss.

In many fussy, external ways, while remaining separate. They were three people in the same house, each in a distinctive box, there was little intercourse between these. Now she was glad of her box. Closing her eyes, she lay, drooped, in her own blessed, separate darkness.

But this release no longer happened often. She was a continual waking to a more uncompromising consciousness. She sat in a perpetual white light. You could touch the oppressively important minutes, the way time, under pressure, becomes more concrete. And her body, she was conscious of this too, tied to it in a subtle way that was new and horrifying, in sleep she stood outside it like a pale shadow beside stone.

It was Valerie Stevenson who heard, somewhere, she was a source of relevant information, heard there was a place, of course, my dear, it’s bound to be rather round-the-corner, but still, but still, it’s a possibility, she said. Listening to the voice of Valerie, its frankness, for Valerie there were no surprises, she was born all shell, Eden felt her returning disgust, even through her gratitude. The place was at Ealing, Valerie said. She had written down the address. Then there was the money question. It was bound to be in the neighbourhood of forty, perhaps as much as fifty, she said.

Eden looked at a slip of paper. This was a commercial transaction. She was about to do business with a Mrs Moya Angelotti.

If I could help, but I can’t, Valerie said.

Yes, said Eden, vaguely. Of course.

Already her mind dealt with a possibility, that was tomorrow morning, that was sitting by a window, the little ridges that the mower made on grass, silver with light at ten o’clock. Aubrey, she must say, I wonder.

Aubrey, she said, and never had grass looked more tranquil, or the pale, disinfectant pink of geraniums in an urn. Aubrey, I want to ask you to do me a favour.

She was afraid listening to her own voice, and asking Aubrey, it was like speaking into thin glass, waiting for this to shiver into pieces.

And what’s that? Aubrey said.

He stirred coffee. He wore a dressing-gown of grey silk. To ask Aubrey now, it was ironical, to ask him to step down from his silky cloud, even if unconsciously, to bring him into contact with Mrs Moya Angelotti. It made her hold her breath.

I wonder, she said, if you’d let me have a week, or ten days. Or perhaps just a week. Because I feel – I want –

Yes, yes, he said. Certainly.

As if he didn’t want to be touched by the breath of any explanation. As if explanations were dangerous.