If one had to criticise Mary, one could say nothing, absolutely nothing. She was above criticism. But must you always—Anne could sometimes have yelled out—must you always be so tolerant? Had Mary ever, during her whole life, had any really absurd, old-fashioned, stupid prejudice? Had she ever hated anybody? Had she ever really felt anything at all? One could hardly imagine it. Her utmost commendation of anyone: “That’s a good number.” Her utmost condemnation: “Your taste, not mine.” She laughed things away—Bolshevism, Christian Science, Lesbians, the General Strike—“Not really very cosy,” or, “I couldn’t really fancy it meself.”

I suppose I ought to go into a convent. A year ago Anne had seriously considered becoming a hospital nurse. She’d made enquiries, even tentatively mentioned it to Mary. And it was Mary’s indulgent, ever so faintly amused smile that had made her feel: No, never. She couldn’t. She could never face the Gang, who, with their little jokes, could turn it all into just one more new sort of game. The questions they’d ask. “Isn’t it frightfully thrilling?” “Isn’t it simply terrifying?” “Isn’t it tremendous fun?” I suppose I’m just being romantic and schoolgirlish. I used to want to be Joan of Arc. It’s all Sex. Good old Sex. I’m being screamingly funny. But I do long, long for someone who hasn’t got this tremendously highly developed sense of humour. She thought at once of Eric. No, Eric wouldn’t laugh.

There was the telephone again. Mary in the doorway, smiling: “For you.”

Anne got up, felt herself beginning to blush, frowned, walked through into the other room. Should she shut the door? Damn it, no.

And as she picked up the receiver, her voice seemed to go suddenly out of her control. Smooth, false, clear as crystal, she drawled:

“Hullo, Tommy. How goes it?”

The anxious little voice at the other end made her smile faintly to herself.

“Oh, my dear, did you? But how too thrilling.… How too splendid.… But that sounds most exciting. I’m sure I should love it.… Wait a minute, my dear, I’ll just look and see. I’m not absolutely sure.…”

She turned, to catch sight of her flushed cheeks in the mirror. Should she? Would it be amusing? Oh, well, yes. She sighed. Not exactly from boredom. Tommy always made her feel—responsible.

Out of bravado, she looked into the other room, where Mary was getting on with the tax-stamps.

“Is there anything special on, this evening?”

“No, I don’t think so. I shall probably look in on Georges’ little do. I might catch Hauptstein there.”

“And you’re sure you can manage with the rest of the stuff for to-morrow?”

“Perfectly, thank you, my dear.”

Mary smiled. Anne explained, with sudden exasperation:

“I’m going out to the theatre. With Tommy Ramsbotham.”

“Give him my love.”