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chair, either in or out of work, either as a secretary or as a wife. It was only as a widow that she had managed to relax a little, yet even now she felt herself to be bound by certain rules, of observance, of behaviour, of formality. That was no doubt why she welcomed her quiet afternoons, as intervals in the great continuing task of keeping up appearances. She hoped that she never gave any sign that the task was wearisome. People of her age complained freely; their children sighed, not suspecting that they would do the same. The old man in the restaurant knew this, as she did,childless as she was. One should spare young people the spectacle of old age. But she had discovered that the middle-aged dreaded it even more, rejecting the comparison.
    When the telephone rang she felt a brief spurt of alarm, as though she were only safe if she remained undiscovered. When she heard Kitty Levinson’s voice she immediately concluded that something dreadful had happened. For Kitty to break with tradition to the extent of telephoning on two successive days was without precedent. Her own heart trembled in anticipation of bad news. That was another thing she had discovered about old age: anyone’s bad news, anyone’s illness, had the same effect as one’s own.
    ‘Kitty? Is anything wrong?’
    ‘No, Thea, nothing at all.’
    But there was an alteration in her normal tones that alerted Mrs May that Kitty had something difficult to say.
    ‘Is Austin well?’
    ‘Perfectly well. In fact we’re about to have visitors.’ She paused. ‘So we shall both have to be well, shan’t we?’
    ‘Visitors?’
    ‘Ann is coming over from America. You remember Ann, my granddaughter, don’t you?’
    ‘I remember her as a little girl, certainly.’
    ‘Well, she’s a big girl now, twenty-four. And she’s getting married! And she wants to get married here, in London, with us. Between ourselves, Thea, her mother isn’t up to it, and I understand that they don’t get on too well. There are younger children, apparently, not that she’s ever bothered to marry the man she’s living with. Partners, they call them nowadays, don’t they?’ She gave a little laugh, revealing tension. ‘As you know, we have no contact with Clare, nor do we want to see her again. After the way she treated Gerald …’
    Here a great sigh threatened to disrupt the conversation, as it always did when Gerald, the absent son, was mentioned. Mrs May knew that, in this most delicate of matters, she was hardly to be reckoned part of the family circle, must never introduce Gerald’s name into the conversation, but only accede sympathetically to Kitty’s references. For Gerald was mysteriously taboo. All she knew, and this merely from Henry, was that Gerald had failed his parents, had most noticeably failed his mother; that after a perfectly satisfactory childhood, and a reasonable university career, Gerald had lost his head, married Clare, fathered a child, and to all intents and purposes disappeared.
    ‘He can’t have disappeared,’ she had reasoned with Henry.
    ‘He had a few medical problems’ was the vague reply. ‘He’s living quietly in the country somewhere.’
    For the offence to Kitty was so grave as to preclude further enquiries. Clare had divorced Gerald and had left the child with Kitty and Austin, before taking both the child and herself off to live in America. This offence was added to the offence of Gerald’s virtual disappearance, for Mrs May had never encountered him, though Henry had.
    ‘He’s different from us,’ he had explained, again vaguely. ‘Likes the simple life. Living on a farm somewhere.’
    ‘Doesn’t he want to see his daughter?’ she had asked.
    ‘Not at the moment’ was the cautious reply. ‘Anyway, she’s in America.’ The whole subject was under a cloud.
    If she thought of Gerald at all—and there was no reason for her to do so—it was as some sort of country gentleman, living in exile from all that Hampstead and his