The doorbell was still ting-tinging, the shop full of buyers. What a vast amount of bread must be eaten in London. One did not think of these things until something impressed them on one’s mind, like the drays loaded with nothing but parsley which she had seen in Covent Garden Market. The patrons of the Trafalgar Bakery must all be regular customers, for the shop was full of conversation, several people had remarked that autumn was in the air already and one forward-looking spirit had added that she was beginning to think of crumpets. Not yet, the contralto behind the counter answered, amending this to Not Quite yet, to soften the blow. Meanwhile, neither shopwoman was paying any attention to Penelope. This was ridiculous. They could scarcely suppose that she had come to the 74Trafalgar Bakery in a taxi for no other purpose than to sit hungering at a table with a sugar-bowl on it. She coughed. Her throat was startingly dry, and it needed resolution to cough again. Neither cough elicited a response. A woman with far too many children of the same age was now asking for doughnuts. The shopwoman answered that doughnuts were sold out. ‘They’re gawn,’ said the mother to the children in a voice so inertly despairing that the second woman behind the counter, who was a soprano, exclaimed righteously, ‘You shouldn’t have come so late if it’s doughnuts you wanted.’ Too late for doughnuts, it was high time to get that coffee. Her wrist-watch was hysterically too fast to be worth consulting, and she would not look at the clock just now, for it is petty to be forever looking at a clock; but if she were to get coffee before Robin arrived (and now she wanted it desperately because of the dryness in her throat), she must assert herself.

She got up and walked towards the archway. ‘Coffee, please. A coffee for one.’

The soprano behind the counter, in the same putting-down voice she had used to the mother of too many children, inquired, ‘Take it with milk?’

Milk gives one stamina. Penelope agreed that she took her coffee with milk. Turning back, she could not evade the clock’s statement that Robin was now over ten minutes late.

Seated once more, and concentrating her patience on the non-appearance of the coffee, she noticed for the first time that she was not alone. On the bench opposite there was 75a cat. It was a large cat, a tabby, and it lay curled in a boss with its nose in its flank. The curve of the boss globed and flattened with the cat’s regular breathing. It was asleep.

Nevertheless, she said in an undertone, ‘Puss! Pretty puss!’

Like a frond of weed in the depth of ocean, an ear stirred, but the cat did not wake. She continued to look at it in silence, and the cat deepened the profundity of its slumber, as though the intensity of her gaze were pushing against it like a tide, and it knew this and resented it, and was subconsciously resolved against waking. At last she crossed the narrow room and sat down beside the cat. Still it did not move. She sat as motionless beside it. A little later the contralto brought a cup of coffee on a tray, with a plate of biscuits. Seeing the cat, she said, ‘Shoo, Monty!’ Her voice was tolerant, it was obvious that she was merely complying with a professional convention.