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there in such unlikely surroundings. Had she become a little eccentric, even unhinged, sitting on the grass in red canvas shoes with office workers, apparently worshipping the sun? Could it be for love of him that she did this strange thing? He looked around him, as if the faces of the people surging up the stairs from a train which had just come in might give him the answer. And among the faces, he saw one that was vaguely familiar. It was a fair pleasant face and the sight of it reminded him of that unfortunate lecture where he had made such an exhibition of himself. But he could not put a name to the face, and in a moment he had forgotten all about it and his thoughts had gone forward to the Victoria and Albert Museum where he planned to spend the afternoon.
    Dulcie was half annoyed and half amused to find that the sight of him gave her a fluttery disturbed feeling in the pit of her stomach – what people called ‘butterflies’, she believed. He had looked preoccupied and a little worried, but then people usually did when they were caught unawares. She noticed that he had been carrying an Evening Standard , and it gave her an insight into his character to see that he was the kind of person who bought an evening paper at lunch-time, thus spoiling his evening’s pleasure, or so she thought. She might almost have spoken, but the encounter had been over so quickly. And what would she have said?
    She had had a busy morning, shopping for curtain material for Laurel’s room and ordering a bookcase and desk to make the room more useful and attractive. But somehow it made her feel old and depressed to be doing this for a nearly grown-up niece. Then, at Oxford Circus, she had seen a new and particularly upsetting beggar selling matches; both legs were in irons and he was sitting on a little stool, hugging himself as if in pain. She had given him sixpence and walked quickly on, telling herself firmly that there was no need for this sort of thing now, with the Welfare State. But she still felt disturbed, even at the idea that he might be sitting by his television set later that evening, no longer hugging himself as if in pain. Such a way of earning one’s living seemed even more degrading than making indexes for other people’s bocks or doing bits of hack research in the British Museum and the Public Record Office. It was for the latter that she was bound this afternoon, and the chance sight of Aylwin Forbes made her feel, in an obscure and illogical way, that there was perhaps something in research after all. She decided to walk through the gardens in front of Temple station where there were always such lovely flowers.
    Viola was still sitting in the sun. Just as Dulcie had felt that there was something in research after all, so Viola felt that there was something to be said for the unintellectual, even pagan, way of life – sun worship, nudism, even something really cranky. She opened her eyes and fixed them on her red canvas shoes, so ugly, really, but comfortable for walking about and looking at City churches, which was what she intended to do that afternoon. It was not the kind of occupation in which she was likely to meet anyone that she knew, so it didn’t matter what shoes she wore, or that her cotton dress would be crushed from sitting on the grass.
    ‘Why, hullo – surely it’s Viola Dace, isn’t it?’
    Viola looked up suspiciously, not realizing who had spoken to her. Then she saw Dulcie standing over her, smiling, carrying a shopping-bag full of books and a brown-paper parcel.
    ‘What a good idea to sit here,’ she said, flopping down on the grass beside Viola, the books spilling out of her bag. ‘I think I’ll join you for a minute, if you don’t mind.’
    Viola could hardly say that she did mind, but she was not particularly anxious to see Dulcie again. I am unlovable, she thought, and unfriendly. When some nice well-meaning woman comes up to me my instinct is to shrink away.
    ‘I was just going,’