‘You see, I’ve become too fond of you,’ Mrs. Weaver repeated inexorably.

Philip had to say something.

‘You’ll . . . you’ll get over that,’ he faltered. ‘These things . . . do happen, but. . . they soon wear off. You . . . you will find someone else.’ Not too soon, I hope, he added mentally.

‘I was very fond of my husband,’ said Mrs. Weaver, ‘but it was nothing to what I feel for you.’

Philip longed to say, ‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ but he was a kind-hearted though a far from passionate man, and felt he must meet her on a human plane. But how? He had never received a declaration of love before.

‘Don’t you think you could give it a trial?’ he coaxed. ‘I mean, to stay here and see how you felt in a few days’ time? You might see another side of me, you might even’—his voice rose hopefully—‘come to dislike me!’

Bursting into tears Mrs. Weaver left the room.

Philip paced up and down it, breathing out noisy sighs. How clumsy he had been! Yet could he have done better? Had she mistaken the expressions of sympathy and appreciation which her previous employer had enjoined on him, for signs of love? Utterly at a loss, half rueful, half angry, he wandered into the passage where he met Mrs. Featherstone, sweeping the stairs. At the sight of him she straightened up; a tallish woman, painfully thin, with a high complexion, bleached blue eyes, and frizzy hair dyed almost red. Longing to talk to someone, he engaged her in conversation, and so much did he appreciate her tart and salty remarks, in which no hint of a tender emotion was discernible, that he chattered far more freely, and more intimately, than he meant to, and was only deterred from taking her into his confidence about Mrs. Weaver by noticing that the kitchen door, a short way down the passage, was half-open, like a listening ear.

‘Oh,’ he broke off, ‘you must be wanting your elevenses. See you to-morrow, shan’t I?’

Mrs. Weaver did not return to the topic of her affection; she neither withdrew her notice nor renewed it, and Philip began to hope that she was thinking better of it. Try as he would, he couldn’t meet her on the old cordial terms; his voice, he knew, was distant and formal, his enunciation too distinct, and his good-night cold. Shutting his bedroom door he vaguely felt he was shutting something out. Perhaps he needed a tranquillizer, a dose of bromide. He went to the corner cupboard.

At first he didn’t take in what he saw, he only realized there was a change. The stage which had been empty was now occupied—but by what? At the back a small broken bottle reared its jagged edges, its base strewn with splintered glass; and in front of it lay a white object made of cotton-wool, roughly shaped to form a female figure. But it wasn’t white all over, for covering the middle of the body was the blood-red petal of a rose. Beside the prostrate figure, pointing at its vitals, was the unsheathed blade of Philip’s pocket-knife.

Otherwise there was no change: the serried ranks of bottles looked on, unmoved in any sense.

Philip backed away, severely shaken. He tried to tell himself that it was all an accident—well, not an accident, his pen-knife couldn’t have got there by accident, nor could the cotton-wool, but somebody rummaging in the medicine-cupboard, not meaning anything special, perhaps trying to get a bottle out (some servants didn’t think that taking their employer’s medicine was stealing), might have produced these odd, surrealist effects. For a moment he thought of calling Mrs. Weaver and confronting her with it; but how did he know she had done it? The daily woman might have.

Somehow he felt he couldn’t go to sleep with that thing in the room; it had the air of being dynamic, not static; the intention that created it was still at work. He couldn’t lock his bedroom door, it had no key. He would have liked to move into another room; but would the bed be aired? Better the ju-ju concoction in the corner cupboard than a damp bed. But he would need something stronger than bromide now; one of those small red sausages from the phial that seemed to kneel so gloatingly beside the . . . well, the corpse. Overcoming his distaste he gingerly detached the phial from its rank, and opening it swallowed two capsules.

‘Good morning, Mrs. Weaver,’ he said, as she placed the tray by his bedside. Feeling muzzy, he was slow to come to himself. ‘Would you mind giving me my bed-jacket?’ When she did not appear to hear, a resentment against her mounted in him, and he said with anger in his voice, ‘Would you be good enough to give me my bed-jacket?’ Said in that imperious way the request sounded silly, and his resentment mounted. ‘Can’t you give me that jacket?’ he almost shouted, and then she handed it to him, holding it away from her as though it was something that needed decontamination. ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘When I give you an order, I expect you to obey it, do you hear?’ She didn’t answer, and her silence seemed to give her an advantage over him. ‘And there’s another thing,’ he said. ‘Are you responsible for the tomfoolery in the medicine-cupboard?’ And when again she didn’t answer he jumped out of bed and, taking her roughly by the arm, pushed her towards the cupboard and opened the doors, ‘Look at that filthy mess,’ he said. ‘Did you do it, or didn’t you?’

At last she found her tongue. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she said with some dignity. ‘I know nothing about it.’

‘All right,’ fumed Philip, ‘I shall ask Mrs. Featherstone to clean it up.’

‘Ask her by all means,’ Mrs. Weaver said.

After breakfast Philip Holroyd felt bitterly ashamed of his outburst. It was unlike him to lose his temper, and for such a trivial reason, too. He blamed the sleeping-draught, which sometimes made him irritable, and more mortifyingly, a kind of sex-resentment which Mrs. Weaver’s declaration of the morning before had kindled in him. Poor woman, she had every right to fall in love with him, preposterous as it seemed; and had not Goethe said, ‘That I should love you is no concern of yours’ ? When she came in to take the orders he would apologize to her, but meanwhile a mess was a mess, and he must ask Mrs. Featherstone to clean out the medicine-cupboard—ask her guardedly, of course, because in view of Mrs. Weaver’s denial, she might have done it herself; after all, his bedroom was her province. But he didn’t think she had. What dire offence from amorous causes springs! Unless he kept watch on his tongue he might lose both his retainers. Perhaps he had better take the blame himself.

Could he have done it himself? Writers were notoriously absent-minded. The thought was disquieting but it was also too fantastic, and going to look for Mrs. Featherstone he dismissed it from his mind.

He could not find her, nor could he hear anywhere the indefinable but unmistakable sounds of her presence. The house was silent. Returning to his sitting-room he saw, what astonishingly had before escaped his notice, that the room had not been touched since yesterday. It looked stale, tired and untidy. Explanations chased each other across his mind. Cleaning-women were notoriously fickle. Perhaps Mrs. Featherstone had taken a dislike to him; perhaps she had interpreted his too forthcoming manner yesterday as a sign of deeper feeling, just as Mrs. Weaver had. Perhaps——

Before he went into the kitchen he found himself knocking at the door. Mrs. Weaver’s manner was neutral; she showed neither pleasure nor displeasure at his entrance. Had she seen Mrs. Featherstone? No. Had she any idea why Mrs. Featherstone hadn’t come? No, she wasn’t interested in Mrs. Featherstone’s affairs. These daily women——

‘Then I had better go and see her,’ Philip said. ‘Meanwhile, for lunch I might have—, and for dinner—. The omelette last night was delicious. What a good cook you are, Mrs. Weaver!’