Their eyes met. Unwittingly, admiringly, Anne grinned at her Mother, thought: You think you’re so jolly sly, don’t you?

“And do try,” said Mary, “to find out something more about the second Mrs. Ram’s B.”

“I don’t expect Tommy knows much.”

“Perhaps the whole thing’s just another Chapel Bridge fairy story.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like our Ram.”

*   *   *

And in due course Anne was plunging into a simple but very smart frock, touching her lips with red, powdering, slipping on her new shoes—the complete box of tricks. It was like packing up a parcel of presents for a child. Oh, she felt thirty-five at least—so sophisticated, so chic, so wearily false, so benign, so maternal, so—good God, yes—so tolerant. She peeped at herself in the glass. Whisked downstairs.

She knew the whole programme. It had been repeated so often. Tommy loved doing things in style. It was no good fussing, or telling him that he was spending all his pocket-money. He did so enjoy it. Am I a fearful cad? she’d often asked herself, looking round some quite grand restaurant. She decided that she was, and had better get slightly tight. Of course, at the theatre, it would be stalls. She sat beside him, watching a revue, simply trembling in her eagerness to be amused, to show that she was amused. And how he laughed when he saw she was laughing. And if he started laughing first, he looked back, as it were, holding out his hand, imploring her to follow. And then came the interval, when he said very negligently:

“What do you think of it?”

“I think it’s absolutely marvellous,” she’d say, beaming super-gratitude at him, as though he’d written book and music and was taking all the parts.

“Not too bad, is it?” She could hear his joy, his pride in the revue ring like a telephone bell through his drawl.

And then she’d ask him about the office and whether the work was very hard and how he liked it. And he began to tell her, carefully and seriously, suddenly breaking off with:

“You’re absolutely certain I’m not boring you?”

Her tone crossed its heart, kissed a dozen testaments. She simply couldn’t be sufficiently positive:

“My dear, I think it’s most frightfully interesting.”