But, as he spoke, she saw him glance at the watch on his wrist, and knew that his whole life, fastened to timekeeping, 151must enslave him to catching the bus. Filled with scorn, and elated as though scorn were a sharp wine, she said, ‘We shall miss the bus.’

He submitted, and they walked on in silence.

The bus was crowded, they saw with thankfulness that there was no possibility of sitting side by side. Trevor inserted himself beside a middle-aged woman who took up more than her share of the bench because she was carrying an enormous bunch of bluebells. The two women beyond her also carried bunches of wild flowers. They talked cheerfully amongst themselves, and he gathered that they were cousins, and had met for a day’s outing. They informed each other of how they would dispose of their flowers when they got home, how some were destined for friends in hospital, and others for graves. Their talk was full of the dead, the dying, calamities past or foreseen, and they spoke with cheerful interest, as though such things were part of daily life, to be heartily dealt with, like washing-days. Not one of them, he knew, would do such a thing as steal. And though in class they were almost as far behind him as Rachel was beyond him, he felt a wistful filiality towards them—as though they were beds on which he had slept as a child. But now, no such reposes were possible. Solitary and adult, he must deal with this business of Rachel and the knife. Acting gently, and with regard for the vagaries of her condition—he had understood it might be pickles or apricots, a kitchen knife was something he was not prepared for, but no doubt it must be classed as a vagary—he must assert his authority, and send it back by post. A simple matter, really, 152and there was no reason to get upset by it. There would be a little tussle, and then they would be happy again. So he would tackle it this evening, and to-morrow, on the way to the bank, he would post the parcel, and that would be the end of it.

He leaned forward to look beyond the bluebells, and saw Rachel. She stood out from everyone else in the bus. She was sitting bolt upright, and her face was the face of a demon.

I might just as well make up my mind to it now, she was thinking, here in the bus. I should never be able to explain to Trevor why I took the knife; and what’s more, if I could, I wouldn’t, for I don’t want to. This is what one gets oneself into by play-acting. Play-acting that I esteemed the Gilmans for their bloody good qualities, play-acting that Trevor wasn’t like the rest of them, play-acting that I wanted my little home, play-acting that I liked it when I got it. I hate my little home, and Trevor is exactly like all the Gilmans. And then, after that intolerable lunch, with Celia being affable to him over an invisible counter, I must needs see that knife, and play-act on, as if it were a talisman, as if, because it was the real thing and could do its job, I should be able to do my job too, cook interminably well and enjoy doing it, turn into a real wife instead of a meat-extract bitch. Oh, my God, what a fool I have been! What a fool I was to give in and marry him, when all I wanted was to go to bed with him! Now here we are, going home after our little outing, with Trevor knowing the difference between right and wrong, and me knowing that I can’t go on fooling myself any longer.153