“It’s a pity,” said Maurice suddenly, “that Eric isn’t here.”

It seemed strange that they hadn’t remembered him before.

“I suppose,” said Margaret, “he’s busier than ever nowadays.”

“Edward’s the only one who sees him,” said Mary.

Pamela wanted to know who Eric was and what he did.

“I think that’s perfectly ripping,” she said, when Mary had explained. She turned to Edward: “And you’ve been helping him?”

“Only for the last month. With the Boys’ Club.”

“It must be fearfully interesting.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” said Edward; and catching Margaret’s eye, he grinned.

“It’s the first honest work Edward’s ever done in his life,” said Maurice.

“We all know what a toiler you are, my lad,” said Mary.

Maurice made his injured-innocence face:

“Me? I bet you wouldn’t like to swap jobs—snoring away all day at your Gallery.”

“But how exactly does one sell cars?” asked Pamela.

“Well——” Maurice loved being asked this. He drew up his elbows on the table, began: “Last Wednesday, for instance…” He was really very funny describing how he’d persuaded a rich Nonconformist boot-manufacturer to buy a rather wonky, but handsome-looking, second-hand saloon. And this, thought Anne, was really the story of how he’d always wangled everything out of everybody—out of Mother, out of tradesmen, out of his masters at school. Anne felt a sudden violent pang of love for her brother. There he was, so artful and unprotected and innocent. An artful little boy.

“But surely, Maurice,” she asked, “he won’t be very pleased when he finds out what this car’s really like?”

“Of course he won’t,” said Maurice. “Then I shall sell him a new one.”

They all laughed, feeling brighter now that the hot coffee was inside them. Out in the garden it was broad daylight. And Mary, looking at the party as they sat round the table, thought suddenly of Father. I wonder if he can see us now, she thought. I hope so.

“You must love this place, Mrs. Scriven,” said Pamela, still a little formal with Mary, whom she’d only met once before last night. Georges made a pun. Earle wanted to know the date of the panelling. Nobody could tell him. Maurice suggested that they should go round the house.

They went upstairs. Edward led the way. He’d forgotten nothing.

“Look, Mary,” he said, “they’ve moved that little table that used to stand in the corner.”

“So they have,” said Mary absently.

She was thinking: How extraordinary that real live people have lived here. For now the house was quite dead. It had died of neglect. It was a show place, like all the others. Mrs. Ramsbotham would probably not bring it back to life. She would like it better dead. She would have garden-parties here and house-parties from the South. She was a climber. Ram’s B. would be kept out of the way. He would be an outcast, spending most of his time at the Midland or at his old home with Tommy and Anne. Anne, at any rate, would look after him and put him up when he was too tight to come out to Chapel Bridge. And Mrs. Ramsbotham, with her elegant jokes, would excuse her husband’s absence and spend his money. Well, well, thought Mary, it’s none of my business.