tormented her. David, it was clear, at least it was clear to her, came from a comfortable background: he had the expansive manners and comfortable assurance that had apparently attracted the wary Steve in the first place. She thought she could understand that friendship, Steve paying with his silent loyalty for the attention of the other, whileDavid gained an adherent who absorbed, without a hint of criticism, his evangelical observations. She found David, or what she had seen of him, unattractive, his prospective bride even more so. She sincerely sympathised with Kitty, whose objections to the situation were troubled, imprecise. At the same time she saw in Steve the victim of the others’ alliance, the third party unsure of his continued welcome by the other two. With this position she could also sympathise.
Surreptitiously, under cover of preparing more coffee, she watched him eating his breakfast, a breakfast which became more lavish as she was convinced of, or imagined—it came to the same thing—his penury. With breakfast in Fulham and dinner in Hampstead he would not go hungry. Then, safely behind the closed door of her bedroom, she would blush at her folly. As if this young man needed her protection! As if she needed his! Had she not spent fifteen largely successful years on her own, bothering no-one, needing no audience for her occasional fears, no concern for her attacks of breathlessness? Had she not got out of the habit of men, as old women will, and even congratulated herself that there was no longer any one of them to torment her? She had loved Henry, had loved even the trace of his presence—his signet ring left carelessly on the side of the washbasin, the smell of his cigar—yet when she had cleared his room after his death she had felt a sort of elation on realising that in the future she would not be disturbed. And she had not been. Living alone, she had discovered, was a stoical enterprise but one that could be rewarding. And now, after only a few days, she was once again anxious, fearful of displeasing this stranger in her house. The date of his departure, fixed for the Wednesday of the following week, when he was supposed to fly to Paris with the newlyweds, struck her as unreal; she was half convinced that at the lastmoment he would refuse to go. She did not think that she had made him so welcome that he would want to stay with her, although the idea made her blush again. She did not even know whether she would be glad or sorry when or rather if he went. She only knew that clearing up his empty room would not provide that curious relief that she had felt when clearing Henry’s room after his death.
This puzzled her. After all she had loved Henry, and by no stretch of the imagination did she love Steve. He was not, she had to admit, immediately lovable, was too stony, too empty, too defiantly solitary. She thought that she had come to terms with childlessness, only very rarely thought how nice it might be to have a daughter, until she realised that any daughter she might have had would perhaps have resented the need to keep her company. She had never really envisaged the possibility of having a son. It was simply that in her case some authentic biological process had been omitted, and try as she may to rid herself of the prejudice, she felt that a son corresponded naturally to that process, gave a truer sense of achievement. So had she avoided joy, as she had in most of her dealings with the world, settling instead for reasonable satisfaction. Yet at this late stage of her life (but was that not the point?) she felt newly vulnerable to the sight of a young man’s head moodily bent as he disappeared down the corridor, or the soles of his feet pressed together like a baby’s under the breakfast table. He will have to go, she thought, or I shall soon have ruined the habits and the discipline of a lifetime, and it is by those habits, after all, that I’m obliged to live.
She thought of ringing Kitty
Surreptitiously, under cover of preparing more coffee, she watched him eating his breakfast, a breakfast which became more lavish as she was convinced of, or imagined—it came to the same thing—his penury. With breakfast in Fulham and dinner in Hampstead he would not go hungry. Then, safely behind the closed door of her bedroom, she would blush at her folly. As if this young man needed her protection! As if she needed his! Had she not spent fifteen largely successful years on her own, bothering no-one, needing no audience for her occasional fears, no concern for her attacks of breathlessness? Had she not got out of the habit of men, as old women will, and even congratulated herself that there was no longer any one of them to torment her? She had loved Henry, had loved even the trace of his presence—his signet ring left carelessly on the side of the washbasin, the smell of his cigar—yet when she had cleared his room after his death she had felt a sort of elation on realising that in the future she would not be disturbed. And she had not been. Living alone, she had discovered, was a stoical enterprise but one that could be rewarding. And now, after only a few days, she was once again anxious, fearful of displeasing this stranger in her house. The date of his departure, fixed for the Wednesday of the following week, when he was supposed to fly to Paris with the newlyweds, struck her as unreal; she was half convinced that at the lastmoment he would refuse to go. She did not think that she had made him so welcome that he would want to stay with her, although the idea made her blush again. She did not even know whether she would be glad or sorry when or rather if he went. She only knew that clearing up his empty room would not provide that curious relief that she had felt when clearing Henry’s room after his death.
This puzzled her. After all she had loved Henry, and by no stretch of the imagination did she love Steve. He was not, she had to admit, immediately lovable, was too stony, too empty, too defiantly solitary. She thought that she had come to terms with childlessness, only very rarely thought how nice it might be to have a daughter, until she realised that any daughter she might have had would perhaps have resented the need to keep her company. She had never really envisaged the possibility of having a son. It was simply that in her case some authentic biological process had been omitted, and try as she may to rid herself of the prejudice, she felt that a son corresponded naturally to that process, gave a truer sense of achievement. So had she avoided joy, as she had in most of her dealings with the world, settling instead for reasonable satisfaction. Yet at this late stage of her life (but was that not the point?) she felt newly vulnerable to the sight of a young man’s head moodily bent as he disappeared down the corridor, or the soles of his feet pressed together like a baby’s under the breakfast table. He will have to go, she thought, or I shall soon have ruined the habits and the discipline of a lifetime, and it is by those habits, after all, that I’m obliged to live.
She thought of ringing Kitty
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