Mrs Rothe, whose husband kept his own carriage and stabled his own horses, sat and waited, staring straight ahead and pulling at the fingers of her new gloves, for they had been made a little tight. After a time, and as no one came out to her, she sent her groom to the house. The groom, too, was in dark green. Mrs Rothe, who laughed a great deal at the world but who suffered the same insecurities all people did, pulled at the fingers of her new gloves and so did not observe the confused exchange between her groom and the Dunlevys’ cook. For Mrs Flynn, after a lengthy delay, had heard the man at the front door and had come to see who it was and what it was they wanted.

The groom returned and, after a not-inconsiderable time, Mrs Dunlevy herself emerged from her house and the groom jumped down and went to open the door and lower the step so that she might enter the carriage. The two ladies greeted one another and no mention was made of Mrs Dunlevy’s tardiness or her high colour or her distraction as the carriage made its way the short distance to the town hall at Paddington and Mrs Rothe understood that some crisis had occurred.

So she talked of inconsequential things in order that Eleanor might sit in silence and stare out of the window, and she saw in her friend’s eyes the brittle light of glass about to shatter. And Mrs Rothe talked, and wondered.

They arrived at the town hall and it was festooned—everywhere now, it seemed, was festooned—though the rain guaranteed the flags and bunting that hung outside were bedraggled and sodden before the event was even begun. A great many people, most of them women—for this was a meeting of the Women’s Federal League—were similarly bedraggled and sodden as they had arrived on foot and Mrs Rothe’s carriage, pulling up right outside the door, splashed those young women unlucky enough to be standing near to the kerb. The two ladies, sheltered by the umbrella of the Rothes’ coachman, swept up the steps and into the hall and exclaimed loudly about the weather, though they were the only two people in the place who were dry.

That is, Mrs Rothe exclaimed loudly about the weather.

Eleanor Dunlevy stood quite still in the foyer as a great many people swirled about her.

There was a child. To deny its existence, to deny one’s part in its existence, was perfidious.

But someone was talking. Eleanor looked about. She felt very small, very transparent. She wondered if she had, in fact, come to the town hall with Blanche Rothe or if she imagined the whole thing.