They were eating lobster thermidor.

This is not a very brilliant thermidor, said Kitty.

In what was neither light nor darkness, she was a shimmer of phosphorescent green.

No, said Maudie. A quite unbrilliant thermidor.

Miles or Giles remarked that he had eaten an excellent thermidor at Gatti’s. Nobody seemed to notice this.

It was unimportant, whether the lobster thermidor, or the remarks of Maudie’s friend, who was one of the smooth, anonymous young men’s faces. It was immaterial, whether you discussed the subtleties of lobster thermidor, or what. It was like this. Everything was becoming like this. You had become that detached shimmer of phosphorescent green on the surface of facts, of events. Some day perhaps would come the bang. Only it was difficult still to believe in bangs. Down to the water’s edge they had spread a strip of soundless carpet.

Maudie was wearing diamonds. Released from gossamer, her head was rounded off into a golden turban.

Maudie shouldn’t wear diamonds, said Willy.

Why? asked Maudie.

It only advertises the fact.

After a bottle of champagne it sounded immensely funny. The champagne pricking your nose, and Willy’s joke.

It was going to be an evening.

If some old B leaves them on the mantelpiece, said Maudie, you don’t expect me to put them behind the clock. They brighten a poor girl’s life. She must have jools.

She deliberately pronounced it jools, which made it excruciatingly funny.

What jools will Willy leave on Maudie’s mantelpiece? she asked.

Willy’ll leave a good smack-bottom on Maudie’s mantelpiece, said Willy.

Kitty, said Maudie, what haven’t I missed!

It went click clack, a pinging of lights, that shivered and quivered against the background voices. The voice at a distant table referring to that man, either in disapproval or discovering a likeness, bore in on Kitty, it made her stationary. She was on the edge. Because that man, whatever the reference, continued to play the game she had ceased to play. She stood hesitating on the edge. The face that had been so intimately a part of hers, in thought, and darkness, existed by itself, apart. There was no denying this. It was the old malaise recurring. It was not confined to the drawing-room on winter afternoons. It was not an emotion that could be obscured by snow.

They had begun to eat a bombe. There were big, lush strawberries garnishing its edge. She pushed at a strawberry with her spoon.

Maudie, sing a song, said Willy.

His mouth hung open sometimes after drink, which made it seem over-lush. The moist, red, uncontrolled lips breathing over Maudie.

Maudie’s got a frog, its owner gulped.

Please, Maudie. A bawdy Maudie.

Miles or Giles felt he had to laugh.

Willy put his hand on Maudie’s arm. It seemed heavier, fleshier, paler from subjection to the months in London, than fumbling through summer grass.

A Maudie bawdie, Willy babbled.

Go on, Willy, said Maudie. There’s still drink.

There was still time, much time, the time spent on terraces, and past time on plush. The time spent by Maudie and Kitty on the same sofa, but in opposite corners of the room. Watching each other. She had spent much time, she realized, watching Maudie. And now in the golden turban with its floating plumes, she was more than obvious, was over life-size. Like a great silky bird. And you recoiled from the touch of birds. That time the swallow fell exhausted on the carpet, and you shuddered to lay it on the windowsill, the smell of ivy in the room, and lying on the bed afterwards.