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Hall to buy something interesting for lunch. He had taken off his watch and was loosening his tie when to his astonishment the telephone rang.
    His first reaction was one of alarm; it must be Louise, and she must be unwell, or in trouble of some sort. When he heard the delicate but decided voice he was unable to identify it; simultaneously he was aware of relief that it was not Louise and uneasiness that his bath was filling.
    ‘Mr Bland?’
    ‘Bland speaking.’
    ‘Do forgive me for troubling you, Mr Bland. It’s Mrs Lydiard. From upstairs, you know, the fourth floor.’
    ‘Of course, Mrs Lydiard. May I just ask you to excuse me while I turn off my bath? I’ll be with you in a minute.’
    Mrs Lydiard, he reflected, laying down the receiver. Was she that rather handsome woman with the silver curls and the tall narrow body, always so well dressed, whom he sometimes crossed in the lobby or met at the lift? If so, then he approved of her, as he approved of all women who continued to fly the flag, decking themselves out bravely for a visit to the shops, never to be encountered in less than perfect order. He approved all the more of Mrs Lydiard inasmuch as she appeared to live alone, like himself, and did not seem to have been driven mad by it. He had never seen her in the company of a man, although there might of course be a bedridden husband upstairs. Somehow he doubted it. Mrs Lydiard, for all her careful glamour, had something resolute about her, as if there were no one to share in the mighty task she faced in keeping herself afloat. She was brave, of that there was no doubt. He had no idea of her age, having never given much thought to the matter. He supposed she might be the same age as himself, or a few years older. With women it was difficult to tell. These flats served as an unofficial retirement home for the elderly. She appeared embattled, largely because she gave an impression of having taken the matter of her own survival in hand. Lonely, he supposed, but dismissed the thought: the matter did not concern him, and in any event he was not disposed to lament the lonelinessof others, having enough to cope with in the matter of his own.
    ‘Mrs Lydiard?’ he said once again into the mouthpiece. ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘I am most dreadfully sorry to bother you, but I don’t quite know what to do. There’s a young person sitting on the stairs outside my flat. A young woman.’
    ‘Have you asked her what she’s doing there?’
    ‘Of course I have. She says she’s come to stay with the Dunlops. But the Dunlops don’t live on this floor. They live on your floor, don’t they? I thought it rather odd that she didn’t know where their flat was.’
    ‘Has one seen her before?’
    ‘Well, I never have. But there’s no reason why I should have if she’s a friend of the Dunlops.’
    He was as vaguely aware of the Dunlops as he was of Mrs Lydiard, easy to greet, just as easy to dismiss from the mind a few seconds later. She was called Sharon and he was called Tim: this much information had been imparted when they had asked him to keep their spare keys. ‘We’re both so mad we’re liable to lock ourselves out for the night,’ the girl had explained. She in fact had allocated to herself the privilege of being mad; the husband seemed by contrast rather orderly. He was aware of Sharon Dunlop only as a pair of feet thundering down the stairs every morning. She was a fairly successful free-lance journalist. Her husband followed her more sedately, but still rather noisily, a little later. He was a director of a small company somewhere south of the river. As neighbours they were acceptable. They sometimes asked him to water their plants when they were away and were duly appreciative when he did. He had been touched to receivea Christmas card from them the previous year, wishing him the compliments of the season in a large and looping hand. Minutes later they had thundered down the stairs, on their way out to a