Mrs Standish was disturbed by Eden’s letter. It pointed to a conscience, to an independent mind. Not that she hadn’t a conscience herself. In a rush of conscience, she often gave half-crowns to beggars, and the thought of accidents made her sick. There were also the days, remembered dimly, when she had listened to her father in the Norwich kitchen talking of William Morris, and evenings with the S.A.L., the discussions of socialism and readings from Bernard Shaw, which sent her home excited, sleepless, turning in her mind an argument or the expression in a glance. Or the expression in a glance. Perhaps this. She preened herself amusingly in words and the young men stammered when she handed them sponge fingers. Because she was bright, stimulating, like the ideas she stole from books. Often she had worn – now a hideous thought – an amber necklace that was bright, distinct, like the bright distinct thread of unapplied ideas. Her father brought passion to ideas that somehow died in spite of him. But Eden, it was a sign, she felt, the letter, of passion inherited or revived, and it troubled her intimately, through her own conscience, that she had neglected the possibility of disinterested passion for so long.

That’s over! said Eden, the first day.

She had gone upstairs to settle her things.

At least I have my freedom, she said.

Discarded, the black velour hat fell with an unprotesting flop on to the counterpane. The years, the school years, the dead age of surrendered personality, seemed irrelevant, more obtrusively negative in the falling of a hat.

My poor darling, was it so terrible? said Mrs Standish. Women, I agree, are impossible en masse. However. We’re having scallops for lunch.

Her daughter this first day made her breathless, uncertain of herself, full of considerations, almost as if it were a first maid, certainly not her daughter. And the hair, the heavy, black fringe, drenching the shore of the white face, was new, done in this different way. It was strange how intimidating the mere physical changes could be.

Good – you heard her, brushing the hair, the voice of Eden in the aired room. Even the food, she said, at school they manage to kill the food.

I expect you’ll have an appetite, said Mrs Standish weakly.

She could feel herself making flabby remarks. She knew she would be happier going downstairs, anticipating the approach of Eden, this warm but not yet assimilated idea. And perhaps, in between, somewhere on the staircase or in her own mind, the relationship would have resolved itself.

I think I’ll go down, she said. I’ll tell Julia you’re coming.

In the street a tin piano, the cracked strips, playing a popular tune. It drifted into the upstairs room, a frail, distant, and slightly inebriating tune. There is always this about pianos in the street. It made Mrs Standish pause, her glance on the shore of foreign hair.

Mother, said the voice that became Eden’s. It is good.