After a week of this, with no letters except letters of sympathy and approval from her sisters-in-law, Rosalind turned to religion, put on a hat, and crept out to sit quietly in the church by herself. Being shortsighted, she was half-way up the aisle before she noticed that a change had taken place in the third Evangelist. She hurried into the chancel for a closer examination. After a minute, she leaned forward and planted her finger on Saint Luke’s nose. The rich impasto was still moist.

From the drawing-room window, Florence saw Rosalind crossing the churchyard with a springy, purposeful gait, and rejoiced to think that at last the poor little soul had taken a mother’s insinuations to heart and found something better to do than brood on Harold. If by any chance it were the unfolding beauties of nature, and she could be persuaded to take the children for some good, long walks … The springy and purposeful gait now entered the house, the door flew open, and Rosalind came to a violent halt in the middle of the room.

‘Mother! This is too much! I have borne a great deal, but there are some things I ought not to be expected to put up with, and will not put up with, and one of them is to be held up to derision in Woodham Garnish. I should have thought you might feel that I had enough to endure already, what with Harold breaking my heart, and that appalling journey, and the children getting so spoiled that they are completely beyond my control, and my health ruined by all these worries, and never able to snatch a wink of sleep because of that odious dovecot below the dressing-room. 243I must say I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect my own mother to turn against me. But now I see that I was wrong.’

‘My dear,’ Florence said, ‘if it’s the doves that are troubling you—’

‘Doves! Doves! I’m not talking about doves. I never mentioned doves. Poke me away anywhere you like—why not the box room? That’s nothing to do with it, I’m quite accustomed to that sort of treatment. But I am still a married woman, and entitled to some respect and consideration, and now to be insulted in this way, held up to ridicule, and published in church like banns—it’s outrageous, outrageous, outrageous!’

‘Rosalind!’

‘Outrageous, I say. To come home, as I did, after all I’d gone through, and then to find my husband obliterated from a reredos! The paint still wet! And not a touch on any of the others, so you can’t pretend it’s one of your old fiddle-faddle improvements. Quite apart from anything else, I’m positive it’s libellous, and if Harold were to sue you, he would be more than justified. What do you suppose people will think? Everyone knew Saint Luke was Harold, and now you go and plaster Father on top of him, and what other conclusions can they come to? I’ve never been so insulted in my life. And you always pretended to be so fond of him, too. You might have remembered that, even if you’ve got no consideration for what it all means to me.’