‘Because, my dear, he didn’t care a brass farthing about you,’ her aunt said calmly. ‘You know and I know that, given a few days, the whole thing would have blown over.’

‘That isn’t true.’ Alison was white, and she had to press her hand against her throat to keep back thee sobs. ‘Rosalie never loved him. She never wanted to go to Buenos Aires with him.’

‘That was the obstacle, I admit,’ Aunt Lydia said. ‘But it was the only obstacle. And the proof that you appreciated that as well as anyone lies in the fact that you took such precautions to keep quiet about the change of plans until it was too late to do anything.’

‘I didn’t, I didn’t!’ Alison was crying wildly by now. ‘I never thought about it at all. Besides, why should I stand aside for Rosalie at the last minute like that?’

‘Because it isn’t you Julian wants. It’s Rosalie,’ repeated Aunt Lydia drily.

‘No, no, no!’ Alison knew she had been driven from her defences by unfair and illogical arguments, and yet there seemed nothing left now but the futile, reiterated denial that he loved Rosalie.

‘Well, I don’t know that making a scene is going to help anyone now,’ Aunt Lydia remarked with admirable coolness. ‘You had better stop crying, Alison. I think I heard someone come in a moment ago, and it’s probably Rosalie.’

‘Oh, how awful,’ gasped Alison, at this final humiliation. With a tremendous effort, she choked back her sobs, and went over to the window, where she stood staring out and trying hastily to dry her eyes.

She heard the door open, and then Rosalie’s surprised, not very pleased, ‘Hello, Alison.’

There was nothing else for it. She turned to face her cousin.

‘Why, you’ve been crying,’ Rosalie said with uncharitable frankness.

Alison said nothing. There was nothing to say.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I think Alison is a little sorry about some things,’ Aunt Lydia said mildly.

‘I’m not!’ her niece exclaimed furiously.

‘Well then, shall we say-a little disappointed about some things?’ her aunt amended obligingly.

Rosalie gave an unpleasant little laugh.

‘Why? Didn’t the honeymoon come up to expectations?’ she said spitefully. ‘How extraordinary. I’ve always found that Julian makes love charmingly.’

Alison thought suddenly that she would choke if she-stayed a moment longer. She knew it was unpardonable, ridiculous, to say nothing at all. There must be a way of finishing this scene with some semblance of decency, some way of tucking in the ragged ends. But she couldn’t think of any.

She picked up her gloves without a word. She didn’t even speak to her aunt, and blindly she almost pushed past Rosalie and out of the room It was all just like some nightmare. There was no more shape or meaning to the scene than that.

And then she was out in the street once more, the cold air on her face-and the tears too, so that she was ashamed to go where people might see her, and wandered instead among the quiet squares, not knowing at all where she was going.

Then, when it was beginning to grow dark, she went home. She was quite calm by then-only a little pale and sad-eyed. She must never tell Julian a word about that terrible scene with Aunt Lydia and Rosalie. She could scarcely even bear to think of it herself. It was the kind of scene one must just try to forget.

Only, of course, one never did forget anything like that.

In the end, Julian and she did very little actual househunting; It seemed that Julian was friendly with a famous interior decorator, who knew ‘just the place’ for them. He also appeared to know exactly how Alison should wish to have her home.

Not that anyone tried to overrule her, or to ignore her wishes, but as Alison watched the beautiful luxury flat taking shape in the hands of experts, she felt that this would never be her home to her.

They knew so much better than she did what was best and right, and she couldn’t pretend that the result was anything but beautiful Only, sometimes she caught herself wondering guiltily if it was perhaps more exciting and real when you couldn’t afford to pay experts, but just had to muddle and contrive on your own. At least it was your own place then-with all its endearing faults and virtues.

It would have mattered so much, of course if Julian and she had been an ordinary young couple in love. But what was the good of pretending that colour-schemes and furniture were of mutual, romantic interest to them when their marriage was only ‘a business arrangement’?

Julian never emphasised the situation, but his kindly, detached, ‘you-have-everything-as-you-like-it’ attitude inevitably made Alison feel that, to him, their flat would merely be a place in which one lived, because one had to live somewhere.

So long as it was convenient, comfortable, and moderately attractive, it had no further significance for him.

And why should it? Alison, who was inexorably honest with herself, faced the fact squarely. There was no single reason in the world why he should be expected to feel anything else.

He took her out in the evenings a good deal-to theatres, to dinners, to concerts. But they always went by themselves or else in a small party which included only his personal friends, such as Simon and Jennifer. Evidently it was his intention to keep entirely aloof from Rosalie and whatever danger she might represent.

Then one evening he took her to a big dance, a semi-public affair, given at one of the principal hotels. Alison had been looking forward to it all the week, for she loved dancing, and, as this was being given in connection with Julian’s office, there was no likelihood whatever of Rosalie’s being there.

She wore one of her loveliest trousseau frocks-a leaf-green affair cut on Grecian lines, which made her look almost tall; and with it went little silver sandals, cut away to show the extremely pretty arch of her foot.

Even without Julian’s approving smile, she knew she was looking her best, and insensibly her spirits rose again, as they had not since that terrible afternoon at her aunt’s house.

As she came into the ballroom with Julian, she felt a happy little flutter of excitement. They would probably have most of the evening together, because there wouldn’t be very many people there whom they knew specially well, Simon and Jennifer, most probably-but they didn’t matter.

There was Simon now, dancing. And with him-Alison’s heart gave a nasty jar, as she caught a second’s glimpse of his partner before they were lost in the crowd again.

It couldn’t be! It couldn’t possibly- The people parted once more, and she saw that it was. The. totally unexpected had happened: Rosalie was here.

Alison glanced round for some sign of Aunt Lydia or of Rosalie’s fiancé. She could not see either. There was no explanation of Rosalie’s presence. She was just there, like some figure in a bad dream.

And then, from the sudden rigidity of Julian’s arm, she knew that he too had seen her.

It was all to begin again, then, this miserable, futile struggle. Just for a moment Alison felt it wasn’t any good- she couldn’t do it.

But of course she had to. She must stand by Julian, even if, in a sense, he scarcely wanted her to do so.

After a while she glanced up timidly at him, and, at the grim, hurt set of his mouth, her heart quailed.

‘Julian,’ she said quietly, ‘would you rather we went home?’

‘No, of course not.’ His voice was curt and almost harsh, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’

It was the first time he had spoken really unkindly to her, and Alison felt her throat contract. She hadn’t meant to intrude on his most private thoughts, but his withdrawn, resentful air suggested that she had.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a low voice. But at that he gave an impatient little exclamation, which seemed to suggest that she couldn’t let well alone and, suddenly very frightened, she relapsed into silence.