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What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? Or a pineapple for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel’s friends could hardly go sneaking up f o the nursery at the children’s meal-times. All the same, as he bought the me on William had a horrible vision of one of Isabel’s young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery door.

With his twc very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker, stowed away his suitcase and parcels, and taking a huge wad of papers out of h s inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to read.

‘Our client moreover is positive… We are inclined to reconsider… in the event of – ’ Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. ‘With regard to our decision – ’ He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly.

Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the way she waved and called. ‘Hysterical!’ thought William dully. Then a greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the passing rain. And William thought, ‘A filthy life!’ and went back to his papers.

When he locked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel.

‘We have examined our client’s correspondence files…’ The last sentence he had read echoed in his mind. We have examined…’ William hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, ‘Isabel.’ The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall.

And her clear, light voice said, ‘It’s William,’ or ‘Hillo, William!’ or ‘So William has come!’ He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek.

The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal soft, sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes.

‘What is it, Isabel? What is it?’ he said tenderly. They were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes.

‘What is what, William?’ And she bent forward, and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks.

‘Ah, you know!’ He stood in the middle of the strange room and he felt a stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him.

‘Oh, William!’ she cried imploringly, and she held up the hairbrush. ‘Please! Please don’t be so dreadfully stuffy and – tragic. You’re always saying or looking or hinting that I’ve changed. Just because I’ve got to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen on – on everything,