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out of it.’

      ‘That degree of contempt is really not forgivable, you know,’ he commented at last, his voice ironically aggrieved as if it were he whom she accused.

      ‘Oh Lord, all I want is to be rid of the thing. I keep telling you …’ She stopped. After all, she had had no opportunity of telling him anything, and the you was collective, her old life which was in no way connected with what she was now.

      ‘Ah,’ said Mr Maynard, this time finally. He examined his fine handsome hand, back and front, for a few moments.

      ‘Well, your attitude seems to be clear, and I’ll take a suitable opportunity to convey your message to Mrs Talbot.’

      ‘I haven’t sent any message to Mrs Talbot.’

      ‘You can’t expect her to approve of you.’

      ‘I don’t see why not. Now she can have what she’s always wanted – that Elaine can marry Douglas. God knows why she wants it, but I always thought she did.’

      ‘Yes, I think you’re right. About this you’re very probably right.’ Martha turned her eyes on him, startled: the way he had said it applied a degree of knowledge – at the moment ironic – of Mrs Talbot that she had never suspected. He raised his eyes from a contemplation of his fingers, saw her look and said hastily: ‘Mrs Talbot and I are old friends.’

      She shrugged, impatient at the idea that he might imagine she was interested one way or the other.

      ‘Well,’ he said, annoyed at her shrug, ‘I shall never succeed in fathoming the complicated depths of your morality, but if you’re shocked, as you appear to be, then I can only say you are quite devoid of a sense of humour.’

      Again Martha shrugged. He examined her, noted she was pale, much thinner than he had ever seen her, and her mouth was set over unhappiness.

      ‘You miss your daughter?’ he inquired.

      ‘No,’ said Martha decisively, wincing.

      ‘Ah,’ he said, on a softer note. ‘Well, well. And you are going to marry that young man of yours?’

      ‘What young man? Oh, you mean William?’

      ‘I didn’t know there was another I might mean.’

      ‘He’s been posted. For taking part in politics,’ she added.

      ‘Quite right too.’

      ‘If people can die for politics I don’t see why they shouldn’t be allowed to take an active part in them.’

      ‘How naïve. Is that the line of that rag there?’ He reached over for a limp copy of The Watchdog and regarded its exclamatory front page with raised black brows.

      ‘So crude,’ said Martha.

      ‘Quite. I prefer my left-wing propaganda put into decent English and appearing in unobtrusive paragraphs in the serious weeklies where only reactionaries like myself can see them. I like them to begin: “According to our correspondent it is believed that there might be a possibility …” ‘ He smiled at her, inviting her to smile back. She did not smile.

      ‘Why do you call it propaganda? And, anyway, it’s not meant for you.’ She took back the paper and folded it into the pile of others.

      ‘It’s not, I should have thought, for you either.’

      ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.

      ‘Come and have a drink at the Club?’

      ‘At the Club!’ she said derisively.

      ‘Then come and have a cup of tea at Greasy Dick’s.’

      ‘I’m late, I told you.’

      ‘Are you making many recruits among the working masses?’

      She grinned at him, for the first time, saying nothing.

      ‘Well, are you?’

      ‘I must go.’

      ‘No, wait a moment.’

      ‘Why, is there anything else?’

      ‘Actually there is. It’s about Binkie. You do, perhaps, remember my son?’

      ‘Well, of course.’

      ‘He has informed us that he intends to marry someone called Maisie. Do you know her?’

      ‘Don’t you? She was going around with Binkie for months.’

      ‘We were not aware of it. But it appears she is already twice a widow?’

      ‘Oh, so that RAF type got killed after all?’

      ‘As you remark. The RAF type got killed. And so did her first husband.’

      ‘Well, that’s not her fault, is it?’

      ‘Binkie is on leave and he insists on marrying Maisie at once. I saw her and when I asked her if she insisted she replied that she didn’t mind. Is she always so enthusiastic about her fiancés?’

      ‘Well, yes. She’s – good-natured,’ said Martha.

      ‘Good Lord.’

      ‘What do you want to find out about her?’

      ‘My wife has been in tears for three days now, but she is clearly on the point of finding Maisie a sweet girl. What I want to know is, shall I find her so?’

      ‘She’s not of your class,’ said Martha, ‘if that’s what you mean?’ She was conscious, in using the word to him, of paying tribute to old habits of their friendship: she had learned to use it politically and not socially. Again she felt dragged back into something she had outgrown, and resented him for it.

      ‘No, I do not. She may not be my class, but she is certainly Binkie’s. I want to know if she’ll be a good influence – you know, settling, soothing, that sort of thing. Or will they get divorced again on his next leave?’

      ‘They’ve known each other for years. But why don’t you talk to Binkie about it?’

      His face went dark and he said: ‘I find it impossible to talk to anyone whose language consists entirely of primitive cries of pleasure or pain. Not that I am able to distinguish between them, of course.’ He leaned forward and laid a large hand on her knee. ‘My dear, would you go and talk to her for me?’

      ‘You want me to go and ask her not to marry Binkie?’ said Martha, shocked.

      ‘Why not? If she doesn’t care whom she marries? And I gather that’s what you meant? As far as I can see they’re getting married because they got tight together last week and the idea occurred to them.’

      ‘But Mr Maynard, judging from what you’ve said to me in the past, you think marriage is so idiotic anyway … and what difference does it make? If Binkie doesn’t marry Maisie he’ll marry one of them.’

       ‘One of who?’

      ‘The gang – the crowd. The group.’

      ‘You mean there’s nothing to choose between them?’

      Martha made an impatient movement with her whole body, and said: ‘Mr Maynard, I never see any of that lot these days. I don’t know why you ask me? I haven’t seen Maisie in months – except in the street. And I think it’s absolutely revolting that you should ask me to go and put pressure on her. It’s a disgusting thing to do, you know.’

      ‘I can’t see why,’ he said tiredly, ‘I really can’t. But if you feel it is, then there is nothing more I can say.’

      She opened the door and slipped out on to the pavement.

      He started the car, and turned to say: ‘I want to give you some advice, young woman. You’d better leave the

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