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Edward Blake will be there, Eric reminded him­self, searching for an idea which would make Aunt Mary's house seem less attractive. Eric hated Edward Blake. He was jealous of the excite­ment his arrival had caused the Scrivens. Maurice was particularly enthusiastic about him, because,

it seemed, he'd done marvels in the War, in the Air Force. He'd got the D.S.O. and the Military Cross. He'd even been once recommended for the V.C. He'd shot down lots of German machines. He was a hero. And although he was really quite middle-aged and was going bald, with white hairs round the temples, he could do some extraordin­ary gymnastic tricks, like turning a somersault over the back of a chair or doing a standing jump across the table. But, quite apart from jealousy, Eric disliked him. Mistrusted him. He seemed to be sneering at everybody, and at Eric in particular, with his large, light-green, blood-shot eyes. Eric couldn't imagine how his father could have been such friends with Edward Blake.

And now they were at the house and there was another pair of gates to open. The figures of Mrs. Potts and Mrs. Beddoes were waiting in the porch, which meant that they were already late for lunch.

Since the beginning of the War, Grandad had had his meals in the room once known as the smoking-room. They only ate in the dining-room on Sundays. The room was too vast for three people, much less two, and, in Eric's mind, it was associated with visitors and enormous meals which went on for hours. Also, it had seemed vaguely patriotic to use the smaller room; as it had seemed patriotic then to do anything, however useless, which made you less comfortable.

But Eric liked the smoking-room. For one

thing, a convention had grown up that in that room you weren't expected to wait for Grandad to finish. It was part of the idea that the whole meal was a sort of picnic. Grandad would always wave to them with his heavy freckled hand not to wait for him while he finished his pudding. He usually had a second helping. Then there would be trouble with his false teeth. They tumbled out on to his plate. Mother always pretended she hadn't noticed. And Mrs. Potts would step forward with a napkin to wipe a large piece of stewed plum off his waistcoat, while Mrs. Beddoes looked up to the ceiling in serio-comic resignation. Grandad seemed to regard all this as a joke. He laughed quite frankly, and never made the least attempt to hide the mess.

Grandad might have saved himself a great deal of trouble if he hadn't come down to tea. Or if he hadn't gone up to his attic between tea and lunch. But this ritual of coming down to tea had perhaps been kept up in memory of Granny, who insisted on it. Eric could remember her saying: "Will you run up and tell your grandfather that we're waiting for him? We can't begin till he's here."

Eric had hated Granny. She was so sarcastic. It was all very well for Mother to tell him that she'd had such an "extraordinary interest in life." That only means that she was fearfully selfish, thought Eric, sternly.

Mother was very silent at lunch today. It

seemed more and more evident how tired she felt. Usually, she talked to Grandad a good deal and with great animation, as though she were a visitor. Eric had always admired this faculty of his mother's for making conversation. To him, it seemed positively wonderful. She was so full of interest in everything Grandad said, laughing eagerly at the jokes in his stories, which Eric hadn't thought so tremendously funny, even at first hearing.

Mrs. Beddoes brought in the pudding, and Eric was reminded of the days when, as a small boy, the lunch had come as a logical termination to the activities of the morning—when he had gone down to the kitchen soon after breakfast and followed the maids upstairs to watch them dust and sweep, teasing them, moving chiefly on all fours, so that he became familiar with the different kinds of mats, carpets and rugs in various parts of the house. At eleven, the maids returned to the kitchen to drink cocoa. Eric had stayed on there to see the lunch being cooked, had weighed out currants and raisins from the tin and had been allowed, sometimes, to grind mince-meat out of the machine. Finally, when lunch was ready and brought in, he would exchange glances with the housemaid, who waited at the sideboard, as much as to say: "Here's our pudding."

Granny had put a stop to all this. She dis­approved of his going round with servants. It was

all very well, but he had no one else to play with except occasional visitors, sons of neighbours, who drove over for tea, and whom he usually dis­liked—even if they didn't happen to dislike him. If only, thought Eric, the Scrivens had been living up here then. '•

Well, lunch was over now. Lily passed out of the room and up the staircase, walking slowly. She seemed deep in her thoughts.

Eric followed her. I won't say anything about a walk, he thought, if Mother doesn't. I won't bother her. She wants to rest, I expect.

She reached the door of her bedroom and, turn­ing, said:

"Is there anything you want, darling? I'm going to lie down for a bit."

He blurted it out before he could stop himself:

"I only w-wanted to know if you w-wanted to go out this afternoon, t-that's all."

She hesitated, smiling:

"Well, darling; just as you like. But I do feel most awfully tired."

"Oh, n-no, of course not, then."

He turned very red. He felt every kind of cheat, deceiver. He was vile. He nearly insisted on her going, out of pure conscience. She kissed him, smiling. He turned from her awkwardly and walked slowly along the corridor, down the front staircase, out of the house.

The hot garden was very still. The stable clock

struck half-past two, with a sound which sug­gested a pebble dropping into deep water. Eric thought: I'm not going.

He walked slowly down the garden path to the door in the wall which opened into the stable-yard. But then, thought Eric, I'm really making a most terrific fuss about nothing. Mother doesn't want me this afternoon. Why shouldn't I go over there? It's ridiculous to think that Father would have minded. And at this decision he felt a sense of ex­quisite relief, although he knew he would have further qualms of conscience later on.

Eric could still remember vividly the time when the Scrivens came to live in Gatesley. Eric had barely heard of their existence before. He knew that he had an aunt and two cousins, but they were seldom referred to, and, of course, he had never seen them. Then one day Mother had said: "You'll soon be seeing your Aunt Mary." She didn't, even then, talk much about their coming. She answered his questions indirectly, but he knew instinctively that she was almost as deeply interested in the prospect of the meeting as he himself was. He knew, intuitively also, that his mother wasn't merely pleased at the idea. She was suspicious and tentatively antagonistic. He gathered that there might be something odd or reprehen­sible about his Aunt Mary, and that judgment would be reserved for the present.

He went down with Lily to look at the house on

Gatesley Brow they were to occupy—if Aunt Mary approved of it. She was coming up for a day or two to the Hall to make arrangements before bringing her goods and her family. It was strange to walk over that tiny, empty house and imagine his aunt and his new cousins living there. He speculated about them endlessly.

The day arrived, and he'd come into the drawing-room to find his mother sitting with a large dark woman, who wore her hair in circular plaits over the ears and was smoking a cigarette. His first impression of her was mixed. The cigarette and her clothes, which were somehow queer, over-sophisti­cated, almost foreign, repelled him. But her voice and her quick direct glance attracted him, seeming friendly. Aunt Mary looked a good deal older than Mother. She had a few white hairs already, some wrinkles round the eyes and in the forehead, and dark brown rings under the eyes—and yet, after a moment, one saw that she was in splendid health and full of energy. Her energy was of a quiet kind. She didn't fidget with her hands or talk quickly, but her eyes were bright and sparkling with life. She had kissed Eric in a sensible, friendly way, without making any personal remarks, and at once included him in their conversation, which was about her new home.