So all that was genuine enough, and moments beside Aubrey at the Queen’s Hall. She sat, untouchable, in a grove of violins. The great horn drew a sigh of relief, because she was beyond its reach, very soft and warm and guarded inside her furs. She became critical too. This week it was the strings, the next the brass. And Aubrey encouraged her. All her life, men encouraged Mrs Standish. The fact that she accepted their encouragement contributed a lot towards her success.

Aubrey, she yawned, I am so tired.

She nodded gently on the way from concerts. She could feel her soft body, that grew weekly softer, more voluminous, more self-contained and mysteriously assured, rocking in the cab. Outside, rain or frost. The glitter of varnish on cold wet nights. Inside, the intimate leathery smell of the cab, the little box that they soon warmed with themselves. Sometimes she put her head on Aubrey’s shoulder and almost slept.

Sometimes I think the happiest moments of my life are spent in cabs, she said. Going from place to place. There are no responsibilities. And the motion. You can sink down. It’s even better than a hot bath.

He called her a sensual little beast.

She enjoyed that. She laughed. In Aubrey’s dry voice to be called a sensual little beast, the way they always called her little, when really she was quite tall. Taller than Maudie Westmacott. That made her bite her lip and turn to Aubrey.

I always thought Willy would marry into the chorus, Aubrey said.

She resented this. She resented her own thoughts.

Oh, Willy has his sober moments, she said,

She did not want to think of Willy, of anything outside the little intimate box of the cab, where Aubrey still remained soothingly remote.

Aubrey, dear.

She took his hand. She liked to hold his just responsive hand. To wonder. She did not want anything more, oh dear no, not for a moment. But she enjoyed the sensation of not having to recoil, and at the same time wondering if there might be a possibility of this.

When they got home, and he stood by the door as she rummaged for her key, she could feel his presence.

Aubrey, dear, she said, I’m so tired –

Sometimes she let him put the key in the lock.

It’s been the most beautiful evening, Aubrey, dear.

She stood inside, in the dark house, smiling because she was tired, she was content, wondering if Aubrey, if Willy. Soon she was too exhausted to wonder.

Nights when Willy came in late from his own errands, and she heard his feet counting every stair, very heavy and uncertain, she tried to hide her resentment in pretended sleep. She screwed up her eyes a bit too tight, her nose just over the sheet. It was hard to resist the temptation of a word thrown in the direction of the dressing-room, where recently Willy had begun to sleep. Sometimes she liked to feel he was sleeping in the smaller room that opened off her own. He was almost as close. On other occasions, not. The evenings when his trousers fell on the floor, and you heard the bump of money and keys, the sock torn off its unwilling suspender. Then she screwed her eyes up more tightly and frowned. When people took advantage of her she had that hot feeling behind the eyes.