Unoffended by the cherry-stones hailing upon him, the man continued to feed his favourite. From time to time he broke the silence, remarking, ‘Here’s a nice red one, darling,’ or ‘Look, what a big one!’ But these speeches seemed to be attached to the act of giving rather than addressed to a receiver. And though he sat facing her, he did not look at her with any persistency of awareness, certainly not as intelligently as he glanced from time to time at his wrist-watch.

His stay seemed to be more measured by cherries than by minutes. As the basket emptied, and her gaze clung more devouringly to the diminishing mound of pink and scarlet, he began to hasten a trifle, and to speak rather more and rather louder—as bath-water, running away, begins to chatter and gurgle when the bottom of the bath appears. Perhaps the smell was becoming too much for him. The old monkey was well cared-for, her bedding was plentiful and clean, the walls of the room were painted with white enamel, an electric fan whirred overhead; but for all that, the smell of old animal was oppressive, and like a direct defiance to the freshness and sparkle of the cherries. Now that the cherries were so few the smell seemed more prevailing— as if the power of an exorcism were running out.

The last cherry had been eaten. Frowning slightly, and with a natural embarrassment, the man said, ‘No more, my darling. No more just now,’ and rose to his feet. Diverted 119to a secondary pleasure, she snatched the empty basket and began to tear it to pieces. In trying to take it from her, his glance fell on her left hand, which clung to its toy. His features sharpened. He gave an exclamation of angry alarm—not loud, but so charged with feeling that the old monkey caught the infection of his tone and began to thresh up and down excitedly. There was a bell-push by the bed. He pressed it, and an attendant came in, her white apron rustling, her starched white veil standing out round her wholesome red face.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘I hope nothing’s gone wrong with the old lady. What is it, ducks?’ she continued, bending over the bed.

‘Nurse,’ he said, and his air of dignified perturbation almost supplied the authority he lacked. ‘Nurse! My mother is not wearing her wedding-ring.’

‘Oh no, Mr Hardy, I know she isn’t. She plays such tricks with it, we’ve given up trying to make her keep it on. But it’s perfectly safe, Mr Hardy. Matron has it.’

‘I would prefer her to wear it. I would very much prefer her to wear it. It must be put back again, nurse, and somehow or other, she must be persuaded to keep it on.’

Addressing herself to the old monkey, the nurse said, ‘You’ve been enjoying yourself with those cherries, haven’t you, you naughty old pets!’

Colouring like a child, he said in a diminished voice, ‘After all, it’s a wedding-ring, you know. A wedding-ring. I don’t wish to be troublesome. But as her son, you see, and in my position, it is not pleasant for me to see her without it.’