A Glass of Blessings by Barbara Pym

my supper. I think I shall go home.’
    I saw that she also had a popular women’s magazine in her basket, and was glad to think of her escaping into a world of romance after her dreary day at the press.
    Piers picked up a bundle of proofs. ‘I shall take these home with me. I do sometimes work at home,’ he added when we were out of the room. ‘Miss Limpsett and Mr Towers are not the most stimulating of companions.’
    ‘Have you always done this work?’ I asked.
    ‘Nobody has always done it. Mr Towers was once a clergyman and had a preparatory school. Miss Limpsett looked after her old father, a considerable scholar, until he died. Then it was discovered that all his years of tyranny had given her the means of earning some kind of living. I mean better than she could have earned as a servant or companion. Now she gets her own back by raising obscure queries which drive the authors into a frenzy. But the printers’ readers must assert themselves somehow.’
    I felt depressed by what I had seen, and wished I could have gone straight home after tea. I did not like to think of Piers working in such surroundings.
    ‘I imagine the person you share your flat with wasn’t either of those two,’ I said, with an attempt at laughter.
    ‘No, it certainly wasn’t,’ said Piers.
    ‘I must go home,’ I said. Thank you for the afternoon.’
    ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he said without much interest. He seemed now to be distant and withdrawn, and I felt I should not extend an invitation to dinner or suggest any future meeting.
    ‘Here is a taxi coming,’ I said. I think I’ll take it. The rush hour will have started, won’t it?’
    ‘Yes, and the pubs will be open.’
    The taxi took me away, and my last glimpse of Piers was of him standing on the edge of the pavement with the bundle of proofs in his hand.
    When I got home Sybil greeted me in an unusual way.
    ‘Falo, falas, fala, falamos, falais, falam ,’ she recited. ‘I suppose you will have learnt more than that this afternoon.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, for now that it was all over I hardly knew how to describe my lunch and afternoon with Piers. I felt that I could tell Sybil about the furniture depository—she would like that—but not about the confusion of pleasure, sadness, uneasiness and expectation that the day seemed to have left behind.

Chapter Six
    November came upon us with all its usual fogs and dreariness, the approach of winter and the shortening days bringing a corresponding depression of spirits. I saw nothing more of Piers except in his capacity as a teacher of Portuguese. He made no special effort to talk to me after the classes, and pride prevented me from joining the group which crowded round him asking what seemed the most silly and obvious questions. We went through all the tedious beginnings of learning a language, with everything in the present tense and the personnel peculiar to grammar books—the father, the mother, the uncle, the aunt, the professor, the dog, the blackboard, the pencil, the pen. Occasionally, when he was in a good mood, Piers would digress and tell us about Portuguese wines or the odd things Brazilians said when they spoke the language. I had not expected that the cosiness of the afternoon by the river would be repeated, and it was no doubt just as well that it should not be, but I found myself wondering whether Piers did not sometimes want to see me again as he had apparently enjoyed my company on that occasion. I had really no idea what he did in his spare time, apart from drinking, or who his friends were, and although I planned to ask him to dinner to meet Rodney and have a pleasant civilized evening, the weeks went by and I did nothing about it.
    One morning I received a card from the blood transfusion centre asking me to attend a session the following week. I had quite forgotten that I had filled in a form which Mary Beamish had given me some time ago, but now the idea of giving blood seemed exciting