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“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely.

“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky.

“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William.

“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine.

But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering what colour one’s legs really were under water.

“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.”

Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, “I do wish, Bill, you’d paint it.”

“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread.

“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so fascinating in twenty years’ time.”

Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. “Light’s wrong,” he said rudely, “far too much yellow”; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel, too.

But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn until it was late enough to go to bed…

It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She stooped down and picked up the suit-case. “What a weight!” she said, and she gave a little awkward laugh. “Let me carry it! To the gate.”

“No, why should you?” said William. “Of course, not. Give it to me.”

“Oh, please, do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, really.” They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now.

“There,” said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she looked anxiously along the sandy road. “I hardly seem to have seen you this time,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so short, isn’t it? I feel you’ve only just come. Next time–” The taxi came into sight. “I hope they look after you properly in London. I’m so sorry the babies have been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They’ll hate missing you. Poor William, going back to London.” The taxi turned. “Good-bye!” She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone.

Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind- looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station.

The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to write a letter to Isabel.

…

The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel’s feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.

“Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby childishly.

And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.”

But Isabel couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the salmon they had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for lunch and now…

Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s so wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. It’s so delicious.”

When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars.

Bill Hunt put down his book. “Letters,” he said complacently, and they all waited. But, heartless postman–O malignant world! There was only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper.

“And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully.

“From William–already?”

“He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder.”

“Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for servants.”

“Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said Dennis.