Meade felt nothing. It was just as if it was happening to somebody else. It couldn’t be happening to her-and Giles. She looked at the photograph on the mantelpiece and she looked at Carola. There are things you can’t believe.

She said, “Miss Roland-” and was met by a bright glance and a wave of the cigarette.

“But I’m not. I said you hadn’t been listening. Roland is just my stage name. Rather good, don’t you think? But my real legal name is Armitage. That’s what I’ve been telling you-I’m Mrs. Armitage.” She turned back to the mantelpiece, picked up the photograph, and slightly altered its position. “He’s not handsome, but there’s something attractive about him, don’t you think? At least I used to think so till I found out what a cold, grasping devil he could be.”

Meade stared at her, her eyes wide and blank. It didn’t seem to mean anything. It didn’t seem to make sense. She said in a horrified whisper,

“It doesn’t make sense-”

Carola dropped the photograph and came back. She was angry, but there was amusement behind the anger. She had always wanted to get a bit of her own back on Giles, but she couldn’t have hoped for a chance like this. There was a packet of letters lying on a little gimcrack table with twisted silver legs and a glass top. She picked up the one that lay uppermost and said, with the Mayfair accent gone,

“Oh, I’m a liar, am I? All right, Miss Meade Underwood, you take a look at this, and then perhaps you’ll be sorry you spoke! I suppose you know Giles’ writing when you see it.”

A sheet of paper was being held up in front of her. The writing on it was Giles’ writing, very black and distinct. Everything had become quite extraordinarily clear and distinct-the edge of the paper; the way it was creased; Carola’s hand, long fingers, and scarlet nails; and a ring with a single diamond, very bright- Giles’ letter.

The writing said,

“You are making a mistake if you think that sort of argument will have any effect on me. You are just appealing to sentiment, and I haven’t any use for it. To be completely candid, it makes me see red, so I advise you to drop it. I will allow you four hundred a year provided you undertake to stop using the name of Armitage. If I find that you are breaking this condition I shall have no hesitation in cutting off supplies. You have, as you say, a perfect legal right to the name, but if I find that you are using it the allowance will stop. It’s a good name, but I hardly think it is worth four hundred a year to you. And that, my dear Carola, is my last word.”

Meade lifted her eyes to Carola Roland’s face and saw the malice there. She said on a quick-caught breath,

“He doesn’t love you.”

The blonde head was shaken.

“Not now. But isn’t that just like Giles? Blows hot and cold- falls for you one day and forgets all about it the next. He did that to you too, didn’t he? Well now-am I a liar, or am I Mrs. Armitage and do you apologise? It’s there in Giles’ own writing-you can’t get away from that.”

Meade stood up straight and stiff.

“Are you divorced?”

Carola laughed.

“Oh, no, nothing like that-just all washed up-like I said. Some day perhaps he’ll remember and tell you all about me. That’ll be something for you to look forward to, ducky!”

Meade stooped and picked up the woollen spencer. She turned with it in her hand. There seemed to be nothing to say. The door to the lobby was open, and the outer door beyond that again. Perhaps she really would have said nothing if the sound of Carola’s laughter had not followed her. Everything in her fused in a white hot flame. She stood on the threshold and said in a ringing voice of anger.

“No wonder he hates you!”

After that it was the most frightful anticlimax to find Mrs. Smollett only a yard or two away on her knees, doing the landing. She had a seething pail of soapsuds and she was swishing away at the cement floor with her scrubbing-brush. Just how much had she heard of that frightful conversation with Carola Roland? The scrubbing-brush was making a lot of noise, but Meade had a dreadful conviction that the noise had only just begun. With those two doors wide open, she would have heard it. And if it had only just begun, she was quite certain that Mrs. Smollett must have heard every word. Nothing to do but to walk past her with a “Good morning, Mrs. Smollett”, and so down the stairs.

CHAPTER 12

Mrs. Smollett told Bell all about it over an elevens in the basement. She was a large woman with hard apple red cheeks and little dark eyes which saw everything. As she sipped from her cup of tea she observed that the skirting under the dresser had not been dusted, and that one of the eight keys was missing from its hook. When she remarked upon the key, Bell told her about Miss Underwood coming down to fetch it.

“She’s got something to get out for Mrs. Spooner seemingly.”

Mrs. Smollett took a lump of sugar out of a screw of paper and dropped it in her tea. War or no war, tea without sugar was a thing she couldn’t abide. She stirred vigorously and said,

“Well, that wasn’t where she was coming out of, Mr. Bell. Miss Roland’s flat she was in, and both doors open right through to the lounge so I could no more help hearing what they was saying than if I was in the room with them. And ‘Giles and I are all washed-up’, she said-that was that Miss Roland. And, ‘Didn’t he tell you about me?’ she says.”

Bell shook his head.

“You shouldn’t have listened, Mrs. Smollett-you really shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Smollett set down her cup with a bang.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, shouldn’t I? Then perhaps you’ll tell me what I ought to ha’ done! Put cotton wool in my ears which I hadn’t any handy, or gone away and got all behind with my scrubbing?”

“You could ’ave coughed.”

“And give myself a sore throat? Not likely! If people don’t want you to hear what they’re saying they should shut their doors! Here, this Giles, he’ll be Major Armitage-he’ll be Miss Underwood’s fiongsay, won’t he? Fancy it’s turning out he’s been carrying on with Miss Roland!”

“It’s none of our business, Mrs. Smollett. She’s a very nice young lady that Miss Underwood, and I’m sure I wish them happy.”

Mrs. Smollett gave a loud snorting laugh.

“Likely, isn’t it, with them two girls both wanting ’im and ready to scratch each other’s eyes out! ‘We’re engaged,’ says Miss Underwood, and, ‘I’m Mrs. Armitage,’ says Miss Roland, and she gives her a letter to read.”

“Oh dear me, you shouldn’t say things like that-you really shouldn’t.”

Mrs. Smollett tossed her head.

“It wasn’t I that said them! It was them two. ‘I’m Mrs. Armitage,’ Miss Roland says, and Miss Underwood says, ‘He don’t love you.’ And when I heard her coming out I got down to my scrubbing so as not to upset her by letting her know I could hear what was going on. And she turns right round in the doorway and calls out to Miss Roland something about hating her, and then off down the stairs all in a flash. Funny ain’t it- I mean that Miss Roland calling herself Mrs. Armitage. I mean that would be bigamy, wouldn’t it? Or do you suppose it’d make a difference him having lost his memory? What do you think, Mr. Bell?”

Bell pushed back his chair and got up.

“I think I got my work same as you got yours.”

There was distress in his wrinkled, ruddy face. A talker, that’s what Mrs. Smollett was. And he’d no objection to talk provided there wasn’t any tittle-tattle or nastiness about it, which he didn’t hold with and never would-taking away people’s characters and such.

“I got a nice lot of hot water on the stove for you. I’ll just fill your pail,” he said.

But when he had filled it, Mrs. Smollett was in no hurry to go.

“Funny how Miss Garside stopped having me in to clean up her place, wasn’t it? She don’t have anyone else, I suppose- evenings when I’m out of the way?”