“Yes. We were bidden to a rich supper at the Gowers’. My dear … I ain’t proud, ’cos Ma says ’tis sinful—but of all the … yes, you’ve said it.…”

Not that she didn’t work, harder than any office clerk, at her endless letters, which she answered in a great sprawling hand full of spelling mistakes. And the hours she spent at the Gallery, on a hard chair. And then having to sally out in the evenings to studio parties, concerts, shows at clubs, in order to meet, amidst the crush in the artists’ room, some person who might, remotely, be “useful.” Never tired, always ready to dance, drink, give imitations of Sir Henry Wood or Harriet Cohen, help cook somebody else’s dinner, sing:

Late one night, at the theatre,

See him sitting in the stalls,

With one hand upon his programme——

Your Mother’s wonderful, they said. Anne had heard it all her life. Your Mother’s wonderful. It was quite true.

And feeling this, Anne smiled with real affection at Mary, who appeared in the doorway, smiling, her hands full of papers, wearing an apron, a cigarette in her mouth.

“Did we send Mrs. Gidden her membership card?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“She’s just written to say she hasn’t got it.”

“Wait a minute, then, I’ll look it up … yes, we did.”

“The bitch!”

With indolent, unhurried movements, Mary added her papers to the pile on the table, selected others, copied an address into the members’ book and strolled out.

The truth is, thought Anne, just avoiding sticking two stamps on to one ticket, I don’t belong here. I’m not one of the Gang.

Yes, she’d felt it often. At charades, only a week or two ago, when they’d done the Ballet scene, and Edward had literally stood on his ear for about fifteen seconds. She’d found herself watching them, as though they were strangers. The curious thing is that Maurice belongs. It isn’t merely a question of not being arty.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of Mary. Not simply that. Though, of course, I am, slightly. She’s awfully good to me. No, much more than good—really decent. Perhaps I should get on better as a lady. Living with Aunt Lily. God forbid.

I shall never be a tenth of what Mother is, thought Anne. And I don’t want to be.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer wants two guest-tickets for a daughter and friend,” called Mary from the next room.

“Right you are.”

“I think the friend must be that plaintive little thing we saw at the Aeolian.”

“Very likely,” Anne called back, reaching for the tickets and entering them in the book.