Confused, Genevieve followed her inside. One room served as living room, kitchen and study. But, perhaps surprisingly, its smallness was attractive. Some of the walls were filled with gaudy paintings—one, hanging above the table, was simply a red gash against a white background. Other walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves, each shelf stuffed with books. And every row of books had yet more stacked on top of it so that the shelves were bowed almost to breaking point under their weight. The floor was just bare boards, but with an intricate squirling pattern painted on it in three shades of green. There was something organic about this pattern. It only came to halfway across the floor, but it looked as though it was growing, spreading all on its own, the way ivy sprawls and climbs over buildings.

“She likes the floor.” A second woman, who might also be Mrs. Betterson, was sitting at the dining table.

“More fool her,” said the first Mrs. Betterson, but with good humor.

The whole place seemed alive. The profusion of books and paintings. The papers spread all over the table, some typed, some scrawled on in large, sloping handwriting. It was like entering a weird literary garden.

“I’ve interrupted your work,” said Genevieve apologetically, gesturing at the typewriter and the mass of papers.

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said the first Mrs. Betterson.

Genevieve was straining for a glimpse at the words on the papers nearest her. “Is that the material for the magazine?”

“Some of it,” said the second Mrs. Betterson. “But Norman’s got it all mixed up with some other work of his. It’s quite a job unscrambling it all.”

“I see.” Genevieve gave a half nod. “It must be nice to have a project to work on. Something to really concentrate the mind.” As soon as she said it, her cheeks went hot. How must she seem to these women? A spoilt little rich girl come over to peer down her nose at them and make vacuous, insincere comments. Only it wasn’t insincere. She felt embarrassed, suddenly, of her flowery dress, the tapestry shoes. The obvious time and care she’d taken over dressing seemed to expose her as shallow and frivolous. They were beautiful, these women, in a way that was honest, direct and disarmingly naked. And yet there was also a quality of deep water about them. Intellectuals, the pair of them. Women to be taken seriously. Their plain blue dresses and scraped-back hair suggested a disregard—possibly even a contempt—for high fashion and all its fripperies. You would need to take time to discover them, to really know them, and it would be worth taking that time.

She felt as though her every thought and emotion could be read on her face, and she wanted to turn and run. And yet the women’s expressions were unchanged. Both appeared interested and alert. Neither looked at all contemptuous or disapproving.