She gave him back a monosyllable from which all trace of expression had been carefully extracted. The body spread without symmetry in the bed, drooped, the breasts, at eleven o’clock, the body had not yet taken on a shape. Out of the sheets a scent of sleep still drifted to overpower the senses. Mrs Standish was grateful for her bed. She had let it take possession of her. Its form was easy, yielding, if second-best, she preferred its passivity as she did her own. Only the bell rang in her ear, and this stirred, disturbed, raked up the emotions she had hoped dead. Under the taut shape of a monosyllabic reply, the throat tightened. Her complacency had drained right to the bottom of the bed.

No, she said. Why? You’re your own master.

He missed this. It was too close.

Listen, he said, ignoring. There’s a party Sunday night. A couple of girls I know up in Maida Vale. They’d be glad if you could come.

Mentally, a row of glossy mouths offered an unwilling invitation. Mrs Standish closed her eyes.

Eh? he asked, waiting. Kate? Are you there? What do you say?

If she could have rung off, to assist the lapse of will. Because there are moments when it’s no good, the better judgment.

Yes, she said. If you’d like. If it’d give you pleasure, she said.

Now, he said, you’re mad. I been busy. Honest, Kate. A man’s got to go places, get around.

She could see him scratching his forehead, the hat pushed back, somewhere in a booth, the coin had dropped. She could not argue at eleven o’clock. She thought she would never argue again.

Yes, she said. It’d be fine, Wally.

Just as he had taught her. She heard the record grinding out.

O.K., Kate. That’s swell. Sunday night at ten o’clock.

Goodbye, Wally, she said.

Standing in the booth, he breathed freer, the kind of free breathing that comes with a sense of duty satisfied. His chin was still black that he scratched, a stubble from the night before. But he felt good. It was the morning sounds. It was the slick scurrying of legs he eyed, the silk stretched tightly over calves. Wally Collins began to stroll. He had a kind of glow when satisfied. A door opened in his mind, her hand, come in, she said, why, Mr Collins, for goodness sakes, in all this time, no I haven’t forgotten the Metropole, Harry’s out at the moment, if you’ll stick around. In those pyjamas with initials on the doings, the A D embroidered on the skin, sort of Chinese and spidery and black. She spoke about her work out of a chocolate nougat, and a highball if he liked, and she didn’t mind, no she didn’t mind, but he had to fix it with plenty of ice. London was sort of funny, she said. Quaint. She was nuts on anything old. And quaint. Only once before, and not professionally, she said, to Poland with her mother, her family was Polish, and the name. He listened to a Polish explosion in chocolate nougat. That was before Harry changed it into Delaware, of course. That was before a silence. A D on oyster satin moved with his own breathing. Chocolate glistened on a wet mouth.