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By Root 289 0

her. Then she went to the window and stepped out on to the little balcony: the unexpected cold made her shiver. One could hardly say that it was winter, but it seemed as though it were no longer autumn. The trees, rigid in the windless air, were beginning to show the skeletons of their shapes; leaves no longer fell but lay curled, sapless, on the fading grass. The sounds of morning were cautious and intermittent, as if few people were left. Down below, at the entrance, a man in a jersey was polishing his car. Edith recognized it as the car that came regularly to take Mrs Pusey and Jennifer on their day’s outing. One of the chambermaids emerged and exchanged some words, which Edith could not hear, with the driver. Yawning, the woman rubbed her cheek, and then stood irresolutely, looking out over the lake. All the signs were of impending closure, of relaxation. No one would come now. In the grey distance Edith could barely discern the outline of the mountain.

Hungry, for sadness affected her that way, Edith turned back into her room and wondered why her breakfast had not appeared. She moved to the bed and picked up the telephone, mildly surprised at having to ask twice, for this had never happened before. But as she put the receiver to her ear she could only hear a prolonged buzzing at the other end, as if there were no one to take her call, and after a minute or two she replaced it, thinking that some of the staff must have been laid off, and that she might as well make her way into town and have some coffee there. In any event, she was anxious to escape, for the room had become a prison, witness as it was to all her past misdemeanours, and she had no heart for the pleasantries she might be called upon to exchange with the Puseys, or with Monica, or indeed with Mr Neville.

While she was changing into her walking shoes she became aware of a sudden babble of voices from the corridor, a door opened and then firmly shut, even banged, and a rising sound of altercation, dominated by a boy’s hoarse voice. Mystified, she moved out into the corridor where noises of distress could be heard coming from the direction of the Puseys’ suite and where she saw M. Huber and his son-in-law conferring, apparently on a plan of action, before turning in at Mrs Pusey’s room. Both wore such inscrutable expressions that Edith surmised that the previous evening’s entertainment had proved too much for Mrs Pusey, that some sort of accident or illness had occurred, and that terrible and expert hotel arrangements were being made to remove her to hospital. She retreated into her room and tried to compose herself. She felt as if grief and terror had been unleashed by her long night of introspection and that she must now be called to account whenever and wherever damage might be done and atonement might be made. Then, composing herself with an effort, she opened her door once more and went along to the Puseys’ little salon; here she found herself the last to arrive on a scene which already contained Monica, Alain, M. Huber, and M. Huber’s son-in-law. Penetrating into the room she saw Mrs Pusey lying on a chaise-longue, her hand to her breast, but nevertheless fully made-up and wearing her pink silk kimono. Mrs Pusey’s eyes were closed and as Edith, shocked, wondered how she could best be of use, she saw M. Huber advance and take Mrs Pusey’s hand. Leaning over her he murmured something and began to pat her wrist. The boy, Alain, was red-faced and near to tears; he stood stiffly, staring ahead, as if facing a court martial.

‘Mrs Pusey,’ said Edith, breaking the silence. ‘Are you all right? What has happened?’

Mrs Pusey’s eyes opened. ‘Edith,’ she said. ‘So good of you to come.’ She seemed distant, admonitory. ‘Go in and sit with Jennifer, would you?’

With fear clutching her stomach, still innocent of breakfast, Edith went into Jennifer’s room prepared to find a scene of infraction or outrage, with Jennifer ill or possibly deranged. What she saw was indeed Jennifer, but Jennifer propped up in bed, her face moody and flushed, her mouth set in a pout, her