Here Mrs. Willard’s voice broke too. She subsided on to the couch, large and untidy, her face red and puffed with crying, and her grey hair coming down.

Mr. Willard took off his glasses and polished them. He tried for the voice of authority but fell short.

“Amelia, I must insist-”

Mrs. Willard interrupted him. She had no longer to rely upon her own shaking legs. The sofa gave her confidence.

“Haven’t I been a good wife to you? Haven’t I done everything I could?”

“That’s not the question-” He cleared his throat again. “About these notes-”

“Yes, Alfred-what about them?”

Mr. Willard’s neat features took on an unbecoming flush.

“There’s nothing in them,” he said. “And I’m surprised at you, Amelia-more than surprised. And I may say at once that I wouldn’t have believed you would do such a thing as to go looking through my pockets.”

This was a little better. Too familiar, too colloquial, but it was putting Amelia in her place. It was she who would be on the defensive now.

The vigour of her counter-attack surprised and pained him.

“And if I’d left your saccharine tablets in the pocket of the blue coat you told me to send to the cleaners, what would you have said then, I’d like to know! That’s where the first note was, and it just shows how that girl has upset you and got you all played-up, or you’d never have left it there for me to find. And if you’ll show me a woman that doesn’t read that sort of note when she’s got it in her hand, I’ll tell you straight out to your face that she’s no proper woman at all, and no feelings like a man expects his wife to have!”

Mr. Willard was thrown off his balance again. He said, “Really!” several times in varying tones of protest and annoyance, whilst Mrs. Willard attempted to stanch a fresh access of tears with a handkerchief which was nothing but a sodden rag.

“Really, Amelia! Anyone would think that it was a crime to take a neighbour out to lunch!”

“A neighbour!”

“Well, she is, isn’t she? And she wanted to consult me about a matter of business, if you want to know.”

“Business!” said Mrs. Willard with a rending sniff.

“And why not, Amelia? If you must know, it was about her income tax.”

“Income tax?”

“Yes, income tax.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” said Mrs. Willard. “And I’m ashamed of you, Alfred, standing there and telling me lies-bringing them out like peas out of a pod and expecting me to believe them, which I don’t and never will! And if she had lunch with you to talk about her income tax, what were you going to talk about ‘tomorrow night’-and which night was it to be? Is that where you were on Saturday when you told me you’d been down to see Mr. Corner? Or was it tonight you were going to make up an excuse and off upstairs to her? Haven’t you got anything to say?”

Mr. Willard hadn’t. He had never suspected Amelia of so uncomfortable a talent for putting him in the wrong. And after all, what had he done? Run upstairs for a neighbourly chat, changed an electric bulb, unbent in a little friendly badinage, and fibbed about Mr. Corner. She hadn’t even let him kiss her, only called him “Funny little man” and bundled him out-he dwelt regretfully on this. And here was Amelia behaving as if he had given her grounds for divorce. Such a suspicious mind. And complete lack of self-control.

He achieved a voice of marital authority.

“I must refuse to listen to any more of these-these recriminations. They are unjustified, and I must decline to listen to them. I am surprised at you, Amelia, and I hope and expect that you will before long be surprised at yourself. You have quite lost your self-control and your sense of proportion, and I intend to leave you alone in the hope that you may recover them. In the meantime I should like you to know that I am very much displeased.”

This time it came off. The voice was once more his own. Large rolling words came flowing out. He turned to the door with the strutting dignity of a bantam.

Mrs. Willard had shot her bolt. She called after him with a lamentable sob,

“Where are you going? Oh, Alfred-you’re not going to her!”

Mr. Willard was himself again. Let Amelia cry-it would do her good. On his return he would find her repentant and submissive.

He went out of the flat and shut the door.

CHAPTER 19

About ten minutes before Mr. Willard left his flat, that is to say at seven o’clock, a young woman in an imitation astrakhan coat came in at the front door of Vandeleur House and took the lift to the top floor. She bore the same kind of resemblance to Carola Roland that an under-exposed photograph bears to its original. The features were the same, but the skin was sallow, the eyes greyish, and the hair plain mouse. Her clothes were neat but without style-mole-coloured coat, brown shoes and stockings, and a dark brown hat with a brown and green ribbon.

Bell saw her passing through the hall and said good-evening in his cheerful way. It wasn’t the first time she had dropped in like this after business hours-Miss Roland’s sister that was married to Mr. Jackson the jeweller. Not a big shop, but old-established and very respectable. Bell knew all about them. The business had belonged to Mrs. Jackson’s father-Miss Roland’s father too for the matter of that. Ella had married her cousin and carried on the name and the shop, but Carrie had run away and gone on the stage. She needn’t think he didn’t know who she was when she come back here with her hair shined up, and her face painted, and a fine new name. He knew her all right, and thought the better of her for wanting to be near her sister, and it wasn’t his business what she called herself or what she did to her face and her hair. Mrs. Smollett would like to turn and twist it about on that tongue of hers no doubt, but she wouldn’t hear anything about the Jackson girls from him. He could keep his mouth shut. Why, he’d bought his Mary’s wedding-ring in Mr. Jackson’s shop a matter of forty years ago. Well, Mr. Jackson was gone ten years, and Mary a matter of thirty-five. Bell could hold his tongue.

Ella Jackson stayed with her sister for a short twenty minutes. Then they came down in the lift together, Carola bare-headed, with a fur coat thrown over her white dress.

As the lift went down, Miss Garside stood at her half open door and watched it go. She had reached the stage when you do things without quite knowing why. Her body was starved, and her mind, like some restless creature in a cage, thrust this way and that, seeking a way out. She had had no food all day. She had no money to buy food. She did not know quite why she had opened her door-some half formed thought of going over to the Underwoods’ flat to ask if they could spare her some bread and a little milk-she could say she had run out-

As soon as the door was open she knew that she could not do it. That common, pushing Mrs. Underwood-she couldn’t do it. She must hold on till tomorrow and get the Auction Stores to take some more of her furniture. The good things were all gone. They would give her next to nothing for what was left. It couldn’t pay the rent, but it would buy her food for a little time longer.

She stood with the door in her hand and watched the lift go down. The landing light shone upon Carola’s hair, her fur coat, a glimpse of her white dress. She thought bitterly, “She’s going out. She’ll be out all the evening now. She’ll be meeting some man. They will go to a restaurant and pay as much for a meal as I should need for a week.”

She watched the lift pass out of sight and went back into her cold empty room. Carola would be out for the evening, her flat upstairs would be empty. She seemed to see it standing there empty, and, somewhere in one of those empty rooms, the ring which was so like her own. The idea that Carola might be wearing the ring presented itself and was rejected. She didn’t always wear it. In fact yesterday in the lift was the only time that Miss Garside had seen it on her hand. They had met perhaps a dozen times in the lift, and always there had been those white, useless hands sparkling with rings. If the girl was going out she carried her gloves until she reached the street. If she was coming in she pulled them off in the lift. Long white fingers, scarlet nails, an emerald on one hand, a ruby and a diamond on the other. But not the diamond solitaire which was the twin of hers-never that until yesterday. So why should she be wearing it tonight?