Balefanio: tmp0

"Is that how you warm the pot?" she asked.

"Yes. It prevents it from cracking."

"Oh! what a good idea. I should never have thought of that. I must remember it."

They sat down. Mary sipped the tea with relish. It was better than she could afford. And how Lily wasted it!

"I really came here to thank you," she said, "for Anne's wedding present. She'll come herself as soon as she's back in London, but she's staying at the Ramsbothams' just now."

"Yes, she wrote and told me so."

"Really, Lily, it was most awfully good of you. It'll be quite the show piece at the wedding. We shall have to hire a detective to watch it."

Lily smiled: "It was in my aunt's family."

"A friend of ours from the British Museum saw it the other day. He says it's Jacobean."

"Yes."

"You know, you really shouldn't have------"

Lily smiled. And suddenly she was no longer young. There were crow's-feet round her eyes. And her throat drew tight, a trifle skinny.

"I thought Anne might like to have it."

"You should have kept it for Eric."

Lily smiled.

"I sometimes think," she said, "that Eric isn't going to marry."

"Maurice always says that too," Mary laughed.

But she never felt quite comfortable with Lily on the subject of Eric.

"Please tell me about the wedding."

"Well—it's to be at Chapel Bridge."

Lily's eyes lighted up.

"Oh, I'm so glad!"

"And Maurice is to be Best Man. So we're keeping it all in the family."

"And have you fixed the date yet?"

"Not exactly. But some time in February."

"And what will Anne wear?"

Mary went into details. Lily was delighted.

"I'm so glad it's going to be a nice grand affair. Nowadays the weddings seem so plain and in­formal."

Mary couldn't help smiling, thinking of her own. She said:

"And of course you'll come?"

"Shall I? Really?"

"But, of course, you must support me. I can't face the second Mrs. Ramsbotham alone."

Lily laughed, with childish pleasure.

"Yes, I think I really must."

"Well, you know," said Mary after a pause, "I really must be getting along."

"Oh, must you?" Lily's face fell. "I suppose you're very busy."

"I've got a good deal to do over Christmas. The children will both be at home."

She paused at the door; added:

"You know, Lily, we should be awfully glad

to see you if you cared to come round any time."

Lily smiled:

"It's very kind of you. But I always feel you've so much to do."

"I'm afraid my house is rather a bear-garden! But I tell you what—you've never been to the Gallery, have you? Do come one day, soon. The light's almost gone at four, and we can have a quiet cup of tea all to ourselves without being disturbed. I've at last managed to get the place fairly decently heated."

"I should love to."

"Well, don't forget. Here's the address." ,,

"I'll come as soon as Christmas is over."

"Well, good-bye. Thank you so much for my tea."

"Thank you for coming."

"Good-bye, Lily."

"Good-bye, Mary."

They kissed.

Riding home on her bus, Mary had Lily's figure still before her—the thin, pale, blonde woman bravely smiling at the door of her lonely flat. Poor old Lily. What would she do at Christ­mas?

That afternoon she'd suddenly had an idea. Why not a show of Richard's and Lily's water-

colours at the Gallery? People still bought that sort of 1910 stuff, and it'd make a change. But no, most likely Lily wouldn't hear of it. She wouldn't want to sell. Better not to mention the subject.

It was queer, but today she kept thinking of Desmond. Sometimes she forgot him for weeks on end. Perhaps I'm not well, Mary thought. She'd never felt better. Yes, deep down in her bones she felt a power. She was powerful and old. The Future didn't worry her, and she had done with the Past. The Past couldn't hurt her now. And yet, thinking of it all—thinking of Dick and of Father and Mother and of Desmond—of all that had hap­pened, there seemed so incredibly much and everything so complicated and so difficult that if, when she was a girl of fifteen, somebody had brought her a book and said: Look. That's what you've got in front of you, she'd have felt like an examination candidate confronted with a pre­posterous schedule: But I can't possibly manage all that! And yet it had been managed, down to the very last item; and, after all, it had been easy and not specially strange or exciting. And how soon it was over!

"Mary as Queen Victoria," shouted everybody that evening at the Gowers', after the concert, "But you must all have seen it."

"We all want to see it again."

"Very well," said Mary, smiling; "since you're all so kind. But this is really and truly the very, very last performance on any stage."

"Liar!" Maurice shouted.

V

Edward sat at the table by the window of his room, overlooking the trees and the black canal and the trams clanging round the great cold fountain in the Liitzowplatz. It was quite dark already. The reading-lamp lit up the gleaming white tiles of the stove, on top of which was perched a metal angel holding a wreath. Edward lit a cigarette and opened the two letters which had arrived by the afternoon post. He read Margaret's first:

"I could think of no 'subtle' reason, so finally ended by telling Mary all, without disguise. It worked much better than I expected. In fact, I don't think she was at all seriously aggrieved. I remarked: You know what Edward is, and she agreed that we all knew what you were. You may be thankful, my dear, that we don't.

"Well, the Festival seems to be upon us and this shall be my Christmas letter. I am feeling Christmassy this evening, in spite of a wretched drizzle. And so let me wish you (and myself too)

the very best of the Season, and may we both enjoy ourselves according to our own tastes and in our own ways.

"My dear, I feel as though I were very near to you tonight. And I'm curiously happy. (The truth is, I was at a cocktail tea at Bill's studio. But let that pass.) Somehow, I feel awfully secure. About us two, I mean. All our little escapades and adventures suddenly seem so completely trivial beside the fact that we've got each other. Yes, Edward, whatever happens, that stands firm. And it's all that matters. And now I am quite certain that as we get older this will grow stronger and stronger between us and the other thing be­come less and less important. When I look back over the last year, I see how this has been happen­ing. And, believe me, it will go on happening.

"A merry Xmas, with my dear love, and good­night, my dear."

Edward picked up the other letter:

"Dear Edward,

"This is to thank you for your most handsome subscription to the Club. I wish you could be here in person to help us with our Christmas Party. I think it will be a success.

"There is something I should have told you if I'd known you were meaning to leave London. I am going to become a Catholic. Perhaps this will surprise you. It would have very much more than

surprised me a year ago. I don't know exactly when I shall make my first Communion, but it will be soon. Until that is over I shall say nothing to Mary or to my Mother, but I wanted you to know. It is impossible for me to say much about it. I don't propose to try to convert you by describ­ing how it happened. Only I have the most extra­ordinary feeling of peace. And you who know me will know what a lot that means. Needless to say, I shall carry on with the work here.

"My best wishes for Christmas and the New Year. Eric"

A long whistle sounded from the darkness of the trees by the canal bank. Edward rose from his chair, pushed open the window, peered down:

"Franz?"

"Edward?"

"Look out."

Edward took the key of the flat from his pocket, let it fall.