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By Root 286 0

duty, or perhaps simply to doing what was expected of her, sat it out gamely, smiling from time to time in the direction of Mrs Pusey or nodding kindly at Jennifer. She struck me, on this occasion, as a creature of some nobility, for she was far from home, far from genuine reasons for celebration and, I should judge, a stranger to such elaborate games of make-believe. Monica, though occasionally winking at me when she thought no one was looking, joined in with rather more enthusiasm than I would previously have given her credit for; indeed, she showed how well she could play the social game when she tried, although there was a satirical intention hovering over her every remark. When she went a little too far in her general teasing, I noticed that she became the object of Jennifer’s level scrutiny. But Monica’s genuine interest was aroused, as I knew it would be, must be, by Mrs Pusey’s clothes, and soon they were on almost equal terms as they exchanged the names and addresses of dressmakers: both hit on the same one, although this was not immediately evident, since Mrs Pusey described her as “my little woman”, while to Monica she was “a chum of mine”. For a harmonious moment peace was restored, as they engaged in a cross-fire of brand-names that spanned the entire continent. Gucci and Hermès, Chanel and Jean Muir, The White House and Old England, were just a few that I recognized. At this point Mme de Bonneuil, who had perhaps endured as much as she thought was expected of her, heaved herself out of her chair, raised her stick in farewell to Mrs Pusey, and rocked her way out of the salon. “Poor old soul,” said Mrs Pusey, in what seemed to me to be a loud voice, although of course Mme de Bonneuil could not hear.

‘We kept it going, though realistically the party should have broken up at this stage. You know how difficult it is to sustain an occasion when all the attention is being sucked one way; again I noticed the Puseys’ curious refusal of mutuality. Behind their extreme pleasantness there lies something entrenched, non-negotiable, as if they can really take no one seriously but themselves. As if they feel sorry for anyone who is denied the possibility of being a Pusey. And this, of course, is, by definition, everyone. I wonder if Jennifer is ever to marry. On which outsider will descend the supreme accolade of becoming an insider? How will he be recognized? He will have to present impeccable credentials: wealth equal to theirs, or, if possible, superior, a suitably elevated style of living, an ideally situated residence, and what Mrs Pusey refers to as “position”. All these attributes will come before his physical appearance, for Jennifer might be led astray by that into making a hasty judgment. My feeling is that the chosen one will be agreeably but perhaps not emphatically masculine; he will be courtly and not too young and very patient and totally indulgent. He will have to be all of these things because if he is to be a match for Mrs Pusey’s vigilance he will have to spend a great deal of time with her. With them both. In fact I see Jennifer’s married life as being an extension of her present one; simply, there will be three of them instead of two. The only rite of passage will be the wedding, and as this will be seen primarily as the pretext for buying more clothes its ultimate significance will be occluded. This man, Jennifer’s husband, will occupy a position equidistant between the two of them, on call in both directions. He will perforce be the man of the family, but he will not be a Pusey. And in any event, were they not perfectly happy before he came along? Were not their standards of excellence confined to themselves? How could he possibly justify any suggestion of change?

‘I have no feeling that Mrs Pusey is ever going to die. With some people (I know them well), the shadow of their death precedes them; they lose hope, appetite, viability. They feel the meaning of their lives draining away, and they recognize that they have lost, or never attained, their heart’s desire, and they give up. In the eyes of such