Never mind that, Eric refrained from answering, lest he should hurt Maurice’s feelings.

“And, of course, I’ll let you have it first thing to-morrow’s post.”

“There’s no frightful hurry,” said Eric.

Chapter IV

IV

As the maid brought into the dining-room a silver dish of chestnut cream, Lily was saying with a sigh:

“Yes, the days are really getting longer now.”

Eric did not move. His mother did not look at him. She had placed the table-spoon and fork further apart, brushing the tumbler with her silk sleeve, making it faintly ring. A sailor was almost instantaneously drowned. The maid put the dish down on its little mat.

Eric looked at the ceiling. Lily piled up his helping, leaving only a few mouthfuls for herself. She began to eat, with the gestures of one who is never hungry.

Eric looked at the ceiling, at the sky behind the solemn window with its silver-blue silk curtains. He thought: Why need we go through this? Which of us wishes it? His brain was numbed by the warmth of the closed room. Smells of Old Kensington—rotted potpourri and cedar wood burnt on stoves.

He looked at his mother. She smiled. Asked:

“You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite pudding.”

Her faint smile did not question the dullness of his answer. She is only, thought Eric, asking: You admit that I’ve done my part?

Bowing his head, his mind wearily answered hers:

You’ve done more. You’ve done everything.

The telephone bell rang. They heard the maid’s mincing reply:

“Yes, this is Mrs. Vernon’s flat.”

“Is that someone for me?” Lily called.

“Yes, m’m. It’s Major Charlesworth.”

“Does he want me to speak to him?”

“If you could spare a moment, he says.”

Lily smiled, rose. She disappeared into the hall. Eric sat listening to his mother’s voice. It was quite changed in an instant. Her telephone voice. Gay, almost playful:

“Yes. Yes. Good morning! Yes, I’m going, certainly.”

Eric took a nut from the bowl of fruit.

“Yes, I think your best plan would be to take the Underground to Mark Lane and a bus on from there. It puts you down almost at the door.”

Back she came into the room. How strange. Eric had the faint, often repeated surprise of seeing that she had after all not turned into a young girl, to match that voice. Yet she did not seem old. It was difficult to see where her fair hair was mixing with silver. She smiled sadly and brightly:

“It’s my little Society, you know.”

She smiled. She asked:

“Why don’t you come with us next time we meet? I suppose you wouldn’t care to?”

“I’m afraid things of that sort aren’t much in my line.”

Touching the little bell-push concealed beneath the table, she asked:

“Would you like coffee here or in the drawing-room?”