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bitterly. “So much for the British sense of fair play.”
    Money was the last thing Margaret cared about right now. Her whole life was in the balance. She felt a sudden access of bravery, and she made up her mind to tell her mother the truth. Before she had time to lose her nerve, she took a deep breath and said: “Mother, I don’t want to go with you.”
    Mother displayed no surprise. Perhaps she had even expected something like this. In the mild, vague tone she used when trying to avoid an argument, she said: “You have to come, dear.”
    “They’re not going to put me in jail. I can live with Aunt Martha, or even cousin Catherine. Won’t you talk to Father?”
    Suddenly Mother looked uncharacteristically fierce. “I gave birth to you in pain and suffering, and I’m not going to let you risk your life while I can prevent it.”
    For a moment Margaret was taken aback by her mother’s naked emotion. Then she protested: “I ought to have a say in it—it’s my life!”
    Mother sighed and reverted to her normal languorous manner. “It makes no difference what you and I think. Your father won’t let you stay behind, whatever we say.”
    Mother’s passivity annoyed Margaret, and she resolved to take action. “I shall ask him directly.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t,” Mother said, and now there was a pleading note in her voice. “This is awfully hard for him as it is. He loves England, you know. In any other circumstances he’d be telephoning to the War Office trying to get a job. It’s breaking his heart.”
    “What about my heart?”
    “It’s not the same for you. You’re young. Your life is in front of you. For him this is the end of all hope.”
    “It’s not my fault he’s a Fascist,” Margaret said harshly.
    Mother stood up. “I hoped you’d be kinder,” she said quietly, and she went out.
    Margaret felt guilty and indignant at the same time. It was so unfair! Her father had been pouring scorn on her opinions ever since she had had any, and now that events had proved him wrong she was being asked to sympathize.
    She sighed. Her mother was beautiful, eccentric and vague. She had been born rich and determined. Her eccentricities were the result of a strong will with no education to guide it: she latched on to foolish ideas because she had no way of discriminating between sense and nonsense. The vagueness was a strong woman’s way of coping with masculine dominance: she was not allowed to confront her husband, so the only way she could escape his control was by pretending not to understand him. Margaret loved her mother, and regarded her peculiarities with a fond tolerance; but she was determined not to be like her, despite their physical resemblance. If others refused to educate her she would jolly well teach herself; and she would rather be an old spinster than marry some pig who thought he had the right to boss her around like an under-house parlormaid.
    Sometimes she longed for a different kind of relationship with her mother. She wanted to confide in her, gain her sympathy, ask her advice. They could be allies, struggling together for freedom against a world that wanted to treat them as ornaments. But Mother had given up that struggle long ago, and she wanted Margaret to do the same. It was not going to happen. Margaret was going to be herself: she was absolutely set on it. But how?
    All day Monday she felt unable to eat. She drank endless cups of tea while the servants went about the business of closing up the house. On Tuesday, when Mother realized that Margaret was not going to pack, she told the new maid, Jenkins, to do it for her. Of course, Jenkins did not know what to pack, and Margaret had to help her; so in the end Mother got her way, as she so often did.
    Margaret said to the girl: “It’s bad luck for you that we decided to close up the house the week after you started work here.”
    “There’ll be no shortage of work now, m’lady,” Jenkins said. “Our dad says there’s no