Perhaps this had not been quite what she had meant, for she said, with a faint smile:

“I suppose everything is so different for a man.”

He considered this carefully also:

“Yes, I think it must be.”

Lily smiled gaily.

“Men always seem to me so restless and discontented in comparison with women. They’ll do anything to make a change, even when it leaves them worse off.”

He must have made some faintly deprecatory movement, for she said:

“Oh, yes, they will! You know you would yourself, if you got the opportunity.”

She smiled; she laughed at him with a strange note of opposition, as though holding him back at arm’s distance.

“Whereas,” she added, “we women, we only want peace.”

He did not answer. She pressed him, almost mockingly:

“I suppose you think that sounds very selfish?”

He replied gravely, with a certain dignity:

“I’m afraid I can’t believe that you’re being quite sincere.”

She laughed strangely.

“Perhaps I’m not; I don’t know.”

There was a silence. He wished he had not said that. It seemed that she had opened some door, only to shut it again. They avoided each other’s eyes, and when Lily spoke, it was to change the subject:

“You know something about silver, don’t you?”

“Only a very little.”

She rose, smiling:

“Have I ever shown you this?”

Opening a cupboard, she took out a box padded with cotton - wool, unwrapped several layers, brought it across to the light of the lamp.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I’m sure you can’t have seen it, because it has been in the Bank since the War. I’ve only just got it out.”

“It’s beautiful,” he said, turning the shallow, heavy dish over in his hands.

“It’s supposed to be Jacobean.”

Ronald examined it carefully:

“Yes. I should say it must be very valuable.”

“I believe it is. It belonged to my aunt. She gave it me as a wedding present.”

Lily thoughtfully put the dish down on the table. It stood there between them. Then she spoke, not sadly, but with a quiet note of wonder, as if to herself:

“How perfectly extraordinary it seems to think that I’m still alive and the dish is still here. It’s like something dug up from another civilisation.”

He was silent. He feared by the least word to jar upon her mood. She continued:

“The modern idea seems to be that the old people should enjoy themselves and go about just like the young ones. That there shouldn’t be any distinction. They should dress alike and talk alike and do their best to look alike.”

She paused, gazing into the shadows.

“I think, myself, that happiness belongs to young people. Old people have got memories.”