The women laughed. Priscilla and Naomi laughed, anxious to be amused, never amused. Do they despise me as much as I despise them, Eric wondered. The proud enemies, smoking, laughing. “It sounds amazingly funny.” No, they were not to be despised. They are formidable, Eric thought. Tell me, what is it you want? he would have liked to ask Priscilla Gore-Eckersley, the biologist, who had done so brilliantly in all her examinations, who lectured at the London University. She was questioning him about the work in South Wales. He began to explain to her the system of food tickets given by the Guardians. Part of the groceries obtained with the sixteen shillings-worth food ticket, Eric explained, has often to be given to pay the rent. Becoming serious, forgetting the Kleins’ party, he described, with brusque gestures, a town where fourteen of the nineteen pits had been closed down and thirteen shops in the main street had had to shut. Even the Chairman of the Board of Guardians was nearly starving. A man who owned four houses was starving because he could get no rent and because, as a householder, Guardians’ relief was impossible. Everybody suffers. The children are tubercular. Families of eight share a room. The houses are mostly condemned. People live on bread and pickles. She nodded seriously, moving her eyelashes. But why are we talking like this? Eric wanted to yell at her, becoming aware again of her half-naked body, cunningly concealed and revealed by the sex-armour, her Eton crop, her plucked eyebrows, her scent—Good God, why are you so dishonest? Quick, let’s go upstairs. There must be a bed somewhere in this damned house. But no, she didn’t seem to want a bed. Not with me, at any rate. Then why does she waste my time? He turned from her to Naomi, the less subtle whore, who had asked, smiling:

“Eric, couldn’t you possibly get me a job in a Communist Sunday School?”

*   *   *

It was the usual cry. Somebody do something. The party was beginning to stick. Lady Klein looked grim. Charades were suggested, with enthusiasm. But nobody wanted to act.

“Mary as Queen Victoria.”

“Mary as Queen Victoria.”

“Personally, I’ve never seen this immortal performance.”

“Oh, but, darling, you must. It’s classic. Mary, do!”

“Mary, you must!”

“Don’t let us go down to our graves unsatisfied.”

“But you’ve all seen it,” Mary protested.

“We all want to see it again.”

“Very well. But I must have my full London company. Let me see, who’s done this before?”

Various performers were present.

Yes, and Margaret was the lady-in-waiting. But what about Lord Tennyson?

“The heavy lead? Oh, that was Edward Blake. Don’t you remember how screamingly funny he was in that beard, reading In Memoriam?”

“What a shame he’s not here.”

“Out of Town, isn’t he?”