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affair.

      She said slowly:

      ‘She never said much. I mean—she was always busy—doing things.’

      ‘And you were only a kid, of course. Yes, I know. All the same, I thought she might have said something.’

      He looked at her inquiringly—rather like a hopeful dog.

      She didn’t want George to be hurt. And anyway Rosemary never had said anything. She shook her head.

      George sighed. He said heavily:

      ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.’

      Another day he asked her suddenly who Rosemary’s best women friends had been.

      Iris reflected.

      ‘Gloria King. Mrs Atwell—Maisie Atwell. Jean Raymond.’

      ‘How intimate was she with them?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know exactly.’

      ‘I mean, do you think she might have confided in any of them?’

      ‘I don’t really know … I don’t think it’s awfully likely … What sort of confidence do you mean?’

      Immediately she wished she hadn’t asked that last question, but George’s response to it surprised her.

      ‘Did Rosemary ever say she was afraid of anybody?’

      ‘Afraid?’ Iris stared.

      ‘What I’m trying to get at is, did Rosemary have any enemies?’

      ‘Amongst other women?’

      ‘No, no, not that kind of thing. Real enemies. There wasn’t anyone—that you knew of—who—who might have had it in for her?’

      Iris’s frank stare seemed to upset him. He reddened, muttered:

      ‘Sounds silly, I know. Melodramatic, but I just wondered.’

      It was a day or two after that that he started asking about the Farradays.

      How much had Rosemary seen of the Farradays?

      Iris was doubtful.

      ‘I really don’t know, George.’

      ‘Did she ever talk about them?’

      ‘No, I don’t think so.’

      ‘Were they intimate at all?’

      ‘Rosemary was very interested in politics.’

      ‘Yes. After she met the Farradays in Switzerland. Never cared a button about politics before that.’

      ‘No. I think Stephen Farraday interested her in them. He used to lend her pamphlets and things.’

      George said:

      ‘What did Sandra Farraday think about it?’

      ‘About what?’

      ‘About her husband lending Rosemary pamphlets.’

      Iris said uncomfortably:

      ‘I don’t know.’

      George said, ‘She’s a very reserved woman. Looks cold as ice. But they say she’s crazy about Farraday. Sort of woman who might resent his having a friendship with another woman.’

      ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘How did Rosemary and Farraday’s wife get on?’

      Iris said slowly:

      ‘I don’t think they did. Rosemary laughed at Sandra. Said she was one of those stuffed political women like a rocking horse. (She is rather like a horse, you know.) Rosemary used to say that “if you pricked her sawdust would ooze out.”’

      George grunted.

      Then he said:

      ‘Still seeing a good deal of Anthony Browne?’

      ‘A fair amount.’ Iris’s voice was cold, but George did not repeat his warnings. Instead he seemed interested.

      ‘Knocked about a good deal, hasn’t he? Must have had an interesting life. Does he ever talk to you about it?’

      ‘Not much. He’s travelled a lot, of course.’

      ‘Business, I suppose.’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘What is his business?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Something to do with armament firms, isn’t it?’

      ‘He’s never said.’

      ‘Well, needn’t mention I asked. I just wondered. He was about a lot last Autumn with Dewsbury, who’s chairman of the United Arms Ltd … Rosemary saw rather a lot of Anthony Browne, didn’t she?’

      ‘Yes—yes, she did.’

      ‘But she hadn’t known him very long—he was more or less of a casual acquaintance? Used to take her dancing, didn’t he?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I was rather surprised, you know, that she wanted him at her birthday party. Didn’t realize she knew him so well.’

      Iris said quietly:

      ‘He dances very well …’

      ‘Yes—yes, of course …’

      Without wishing to, Iris unwillingly let a picture of that evening flit across her mind.

      The round table at the Luxembourg, the shaded lights, the flowers. The dance band with its insistent rhythm. The seven people round the table, herself, Anthony Browne, Rosemary, Stephen Farraday, Ruth Lessing, George, and on George’s right, Stephen Farraday’s wife, Lady Alexandra Farraday with her pale straight hair and those slightly arched nostrils and her clear arrogant voice. Such a gay party it had been, or hadn’t it?

      And in the middle of it, Rosemary—No, no, better not think about that. Better only to remember herself sitting next to Tony—that was the first time she had really met him. Before that he had been only a name, a shadow in the hall, a back accompanying Rosemary down the steps in front of the house to a waiting taxi.

      Tony—

      She came back with a start. George was repeating a question.

      ‘Funny he cleared off so soon after. Where did he go, do you know?’

      She said vaguely, ‘Oh, Ceylon, I think, or India.’

      ‘Never mentioned it that night.’

      Iris said sharply:

      ‘Why should he? And have we got to talk about—that night?’

      His face crimsoned over.

      ‘No, no, of course not. Sorry, old thing. By the way, ask Browne to dinner one night. I’d like to meet him again.’

      Iris was delighted. George was coming round. The invitation was duly given and accepted, but at the last minute Anthony had to go North on business and couldn’t come.

      One day at the end of July, George startled both Lucilla and Iris by announcing that he had bought a house in the country.

      ‘Bought a house?’ Iris was incredulous. ‘But I thought we were going to rent that house at Goring for two months?’

      ‘Nicer to have a place of one’s own—eh? Can go down for weekends all through the year.’

      ‘Where is it? On the river?’

      ‘Not exactly. In fact, not at all. Sussex. Marlingham. Little Priors, it’s called. Twelve acres—small Georgian house.’

      ‘Do you mean you’ve bought it without us even seeing

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