To the North by Elizabeth Bowen

Markie warning him to eat out until further notice. Delicacy did not exist in Markie’s family, in which only a brutal good sense put the brake on egotism. He and she, exacting hard terms from each other without compunction, wrangled cheerfully on the stairs or insulted each other by telephone. The agreement worked well for both parties; he secured more than moderate comfort with no anxieties; the Dolmans, whose minor economies were remarkable, could keep on their large rather disagreeably imposing house whose lease had been purchased almost for nothing during the War.
    Emmeline wished Markie lived in the Temple. She did not like the look of the servant who let her in; she felt she was forcing her way through a strange woman’s house. None of Markie’s other friends can have shared this prejudice, of which Emmeline was ashamed.
    “Straight on up,” said the servant, when Emmeline asked for Markie. He was perfunctory, knowing she must have been here before. Before she was up the first flight he switched the hall light off: evidently they economised. There was no staircase window; light filtered down through the banisters from a much higher floor. As Emmeline felt her way up in her long yellow dress, like a ghost astray, a door shut above and with firm, quick steps, well knowing her way, a woman began to come down. She came humming, snapping a bracelet on to her wrist; stiff taffeta brushed the stairs. Emmeline, apprehensively raising her eyes, saw a stocky, vigorous figure trailing a cloak, a line of faint light from above on some fuzzy hair. Seldom conscious enough to be shy, Emmeline, pressing back to the wall, found herself wishing to dematerialise. They came practically face to face.
    “Mustn’t pass on the stairs: bad luck,” said the strange woman, halting against the banisters. Emmeline felt herself cynically regarded by unseen eyes. She had the sense of a powerful presence, of a familiarity that was startling, close to her in the dark. She heard slow, heavy breathing, and taffeta creaking against the banisters.
    “Going up to Markie’s?”
    “Yes,” said Emmeline.
    “Know your way all right?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “Right you are.” A bare muscular arm, with the bracelet, came up to pat the hair and adjust a shoulder-strap. “Well, good-night: have a nice time— Oh, and turn out that light as you go up: I never waste anything.”
    She went on down with a rush; Emmeline in her chiffon went on up silently. Markie’s door was open; he stood at the head of the stairs.
    “Hullo,” he said. “Meet my sister?”
    “I think so: yes.”
    “What a bore for you— Come in, Emmeline.”
    It would have occurred to Cecilia to ask why Markie, hearing his sister engaging his friend on the stairs, had not come down to introduce them instead of listening cynically above. Emmeline did not know what was wrong: she gave Markie her hand, which was chilly from driving, and they went into the flat. Here Markie’s curtains were drawn on the last cold daylight, the lamps were all lit, pictures and glasses shone. One stepped back from summer, late light in squares and gardens, into the seasonless glare of festivity. Emmeline’s world, that had hung shining throughout the week like a bubble on some divine breath, contracted suddenly to this room—staring, positive, full of shelves and tables—the scene of some terror from which she had lately fled. To-day, at last, was Friday. “Here I am,” she thought, smiling to reassure herself.
    Markie helped her off with her coat; they smiled at each other and said nothing. Markie folded the white fur coat and put it down, liking the silent intimacy of her arrival. Misty with short-sight, her eyes dwelt anxiously on his face, as though there were someone here that she did not recognise. Something slipped from her, on the instant, like a bright cloak, leaving her colder.
    “Sherry,” Markie said.
    “Is your sister married?”
    “Oh yes, she has a husband.”
    “What is he