“That’s very kind of you.” She shook her head, smiling. “But I’m afraid it would be wasted on me. I don’t understand music.”

“Neither do I.” His sudden exasperation made Lily smile. “But that needn’t prevent your coming if you’d like to.”

“I don’t think I will, thank you, darling. I very seldom go out in the evenings now.”

Yes, actually, he could swear that it had amused her to break through his carefully and painfully prepared armour. His armour of politeness, mildness, dullness. She said very sweetly:

“You’ll give my love to Mary, won’t you, when next you’re there? I haven’t seen her for ages. Tell her that any time she cares to, I should be delighted to have her to tea. But, of course, I know she’s very busy.” Lily was helping Eric on with his overcoat. “I’ve nothing very important to do myself”—she suddenly uttered a quiet laugh—“and so I always feel I may be rather apt to forget how hard other people in the world are working.”

She came with Eric across the little hall to the door of the flat. Her manner changed.

“I hope your landlady feeds you properly?”

“Of course she does,” he forced himself to smile.

“And doesn’t put all sorts of ridiculous extras on your bills?”

“No.”

“Well, good-bye, darling.”

“Good-bye, Mother.”

He stooped and kissed her cheek. Had an impulse to bolt down the stairs. Rang for the lift.

*   *   *

Out in the street, walking fast, he thought dully: Why do I come here? What makes her wish to see me?

She can trifle with all this, he thought, in a sudden gust of anger. It costs her nothing. She doesn’t feel. For her this is only pleasant, sad. It’s a sentimental luxury.

No, he thought, that’s utterly unjust. I’m a brute. I’m vile to her.

Darling Mother. Can’t I help her? Must we go on like this? It seems so miserable and senseless. His mind ranged for solutions, followed the old circle. No, there’s nothing.

Nothing, nothing, he thought—seeing a tram, people shopping. Sane women with baskets choosing fish, or materials for curtains. Sensibility is an invention of the upper class, he had read, had said. Suppose one explained everything to that policeman. Don’t get on with yer Ma, eh? After all, some of it could be translated into that language. But he would expect a black eye to be shown him, or a bruise inflicted by a poker.

*   *   *