Last Things by C. P. Snow

whole idea.’
    Margaret said – and it was true – that I was upset out of all proportion.
    That afternoon, Margaret went out, and it was after teatime before she joined me in the drawing-room. She looked at me: she knew, better than anyone, that my moods, once set, were hard for me to break, and that I had been regressing to the morning’s news.
    ‘I’ve got something else for you,’ she said.
    I replied, without interest. ‘Have you?’
    ‘I’ve been to see Muriel.’
    That didn’t stir me. I said again: ‘Oh, have you?’
    ‘She’s got rid of Pat.’
    At last I was listening.
    ‘She’s got rid of him.’
    ‘Does she mean it?’
    ‘Oh yes, she means it. It’s for good and all.’
    Margaret said, she hadn’t begun to guess. Nor had I. Nor, so far as we knew, had Azik or Rosalind. Possibly not the young man himself. It was true, Muriel had remained at Eaton Square, a couple of months now since the baby was born: but that seemed to us like a spoiled young woman who enjoyed being looked after. Not a bit of it. During that time she had, with complete coolness, telling no one except her solicitor, been organising the break. Her solicitor was to dispose of the Chelsea flat: he was to buy a house where she would take the baby. She had sent for Pat the evening before, just to tell him that she didn’t wish to see him again and that an action for divorce would, of course, go through. So far as Margaret could gather, Muriel had been entirely calm during this interview, much less touched by Pat’s entreaties, wiles, sorrows and even threats than Margaret herself on a less critical occasion. It seemed to me strangely like Muriel’s father disposing of a college servant. In a methodical, businesslike fashion she had, immediately he left, written him a letter confirming what she had just said.
    ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Margaret.
    We felt, for the moment, nothing but surprise. It was clear that Muriel had made her decision months ago, kept it to herself, not altered it by a tremor, and worked out her plans. She didn’t seem heartbroken: she didn’t even seem outraged: she just behaved as though she had had enough of him. As we talked, Margaret and I were lost, neither of us could give any kind of insight, or even rationalisation. Why had she married him? Had she been determined to escape from a possessive mother? Her life, until she was twenty, had been shielded, by the standards of the day. Rosalind was both worldly and as watchful as a detective, and it had been difficult for Muriel not to stay a virgin. Perhaps Pat had been the most enterprising young man round her. Certainly he had contrived to seduce her: but there might have been some contrivance on her part too, so that she became pregnant and stopped any argument against the marriage. Yet all that seemed too mechanical to sound true. Was she one of those who were sexually avid and otherwise cold? Somehow that didn’t sound true either. Was it simply his running after women that made her tired of him? Or was that an excuse? She might have plans for the future, but if so those too she was keeping to herself. She might be looking for another husband. Alternatively, it seemed as likely that she had no use for men. Neither Margaret nor I would trust our judgment either way. She had her child, and that she must have wanted; Margaret said that in a singular manner, on the surface undisturbed, she was a devoted mother.
    While we were still talking, still mystified – it must have been getting on for seven – there were Italian cries, our housekeeper’s, penetrating to us from rooms away, cries that soon we made out as excited greetings, which must come from the front door. ‘Here he is! Here he is!’ she was shouting, and Charles entered the room.
    As Margaret embraced him, she broke out: ‘Why didn’t you let us know?’
    ‘Anyway, I’m here.’
    He needed a shave, he was wearing a jacket, roll-top sweater and dirty jeans. It was the