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of the books in the bookcase as he passed, producing a low steady ripple. He covered his unease with a kind of insouciance, though no one was watching. He’d done what he’d been told, he’d been extremely kind to Mrs. Cow, but his worry was more wounding and obscure: that he’d been told to do it by someone who knew it was wrong, and yet pretended it wasn’t. Three toes on his father’s left foot had been blown off by a German shell, and the man he had learned to call Uncle Cecil was a cold white statue in the chapel downstairs, because of a German sniper with a gun. Wilfrid ran down the corridor, in momentary freedom from any kind of adult, his fear of being late overruled by a blind desire to hide—ran past his grandmother’s room and round the corner, till he got to the linen-room, and went in, and closed the door.

3

“HAVE A DRINK, Duffel,” said Dudley genially, rather as if she were another guest.

“We’re having Manhattans,” said Mrs. Riley.

“Oh …,” said Daphne, not quite looking at either of them, but crossing the room with a good-tempered expression. She still felt distinctly odd, like the subject of an experiment, whenever she came into the “new” drawing-room; and having Mrs. Riley herself in the room only made her feel odder. “Should we wait for Mother and Clara?”

“Oh, I don’t know …,” said Dudley. “Eva looked thirsty.”

Mrs. Riley gave her quick smoky laugh. “How do you know Mrs. … um—?” she said.

“Mrs. Kalbeck? She was our neighbour in Middlesex,” said Daphne, making a moody survey of the bottles on the tray; and though she loved Manhattans, and had loved Manhattan itself, when they’d gone there for Dudley’s book, she set about mixing herself a gin and Dubonnet.

Mrs. Riley said, “She seems rather … um …,” making a game of her own malice.

“Yes, she’s a dear,” said Daphne.

“She’s certainly an enormous asset at a house party,” said Dudley.

Daphne gave a pinched smile and said, “Poor Clara had a very hard war,” which was what her mother often said in her friend’s defence, and now sounded almost as satirical as Dudley’s previous remark. She’d never been fond of Clara, but she pitied her, and since they both had brothers who’d been killed in the War, felt a certain kinship with her.

“Just wait till she starts singing the Ride of the Valkyries,” Dudley said.

“Oh, does she do that,” said Mrs. Riley.

“Well, she loves Wagner,” said Daphne. “You know she took my mother to Bayreuth before the War.”

“Poor thing …,” said Mrs. Riley.

“She’s never quite recovered,” said Dudley in a tactful tone, “has she, Duffel, your mother, really?”

Mrs. Riley chuckled again, and now Daphne looked at her: yes, that was how she chuckled, head back an inch, upper lip spread downwards, a huff of cigarette-smoke: a more or less tolerant gesture as much as a laugh.

“I don’t rightly know,” said Daphne, frowning, but seeing the point of keeping her husband in a good humour. A certain amount of baiting of the Sawles would have to be allowed this weekend. She came over with her drink, and dropped into one of the low grey armchairs with a trace of a smirk at its continuing novelty. She thought she’d never seen anything so short, for evening wear, as Eva Riley’s dress, only just on the knee when she sat, or indeed anything so long as her slithering red necklace, doubtless also of her own design. Well, her odd flat body was made for fashion, or at least for these fashions; and her sharp little face, not pretty, really, but made up as if it were, in red, white and black like a Chinese doll. Designers, it seemed, were never off duty. Curled across the corner of a sofa, her red necklace slinking over the grey cushions, Mrs. Riley was a sort of advertisement for her room; or perhaps the room was an advertisement for her. “I know this weekend has been consecrated to Cecil,” Daphne said, “but actually I’m glad that Clara was persuaded to come. She has no one, really, except my mother. It will mean so much to her. Poor dear, you know she hasn’t even got electricity.”

Dudley snorted delightedly at this. “She’ll revel in the electrical fixtures here,