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two’s time, no doubt, one could take him the Daily Mirror or something: until then it looked as though they would breakfast in silence.
    Glancing again, she decided that Patrick at any rate was feeling no social embarrassment. He was a silent child, almost stolid. He never prattled, but his articulation was good. Whenever he addressed her, which was rarely, he did so as Frewen, which was also amusing and original, and made a good point at dinner parties; but what really went on in his mind Lesley had so far no idea. The sudden change in his circumstances had caused, so far as she could gather, neither surprise nor emotion: he accepted them silently, stolidly and with apparent content. Whether he ever thought about his mother she could not guess: that he should want her in the night sometimes never entered Lesley’s head; for Patrick at the Yellow House slept next to Mrs. Lee, and it was she who rose secretly in the middle of the night.
    Gathering up her letters, Lesley rose from the table and lit a cigarette. The morning—a hairwave and lunch in town: Pat could go shopping with Mrs. Lee. Afternoon—rather miscellaneous; an exhibition of Negro sculpture, and possibly a new hat. And then back and rest and change for bridge at Elissa’s, followed by a midnight matinée.…
    The door opened and Mrs. Lee came in. She was stout, cooklike, and with Lesley at least completely impassive; but for once a slight animation seemed to be working within her. She had no need to ask, she had merely to remind, and the flow of her pleasure was therefore unchecked.
    â€œYou do remember, Madam, that I’m going for the night to my sister’s?”
    Lesley remembered perfectly. Hadn’t there been a note from Mr. Ashton about it.
    â€œThat’s right, Madam. I shall leave the table ready, and the chicken in the refrigerator. Master Pat’s supper I can do before I go.”
    With equal good humour Miss Frewen confirmed the arrangements, omitting, however, to mention that the chicken would not be required. Mrs. Lee was invaluable, but her prejudices dated from the flood, and Lesley had no intention of either staying at home herself or of wrecking the long-laid private arrangements of a first-class cook. She was going to begin, in fact, as she meant to go on.
    Through the smoke of her cigarette Lesley smiled securely. The evening, besides being amusing, was also going to be important: a test case so to speak, in which should be proved with what perfect confidence one could leave a four-year-old child until three in the morning. For one night at least, or at any rate for a considerable part of it, Patrick should sleep by himself in the Yellow House.
    2
    In pursuance of this resolution, therefore, Lesley went up about seven o’clock, saw Pat peacefully dreaming, and bathed and dressed as quietly as possible. It was an occasion for full fig, in this case a new dead-white moiré of extreme backlessness: the smooth, heavy silk clung snugly about her thighs, the narrow crossed shoulder-straps settled immaculately into place, and never in her life had Lesley felt more successful.
    â€œHow maternity agrees with you, darling!” said Elissa in Pont Street. “One of these days I shall go to Battersea myself. Cut for partners, someone, and let’s play rather high.…”
    With no more than a pleasant sense of its being her due, Lesley picked up a safe Three No Trumps. She did not know it, but she had about another two hours. She had, in fact, until exactly ten o’clock; when having just raised her partner to Three Spades, her inner eye was suddenly distracted by a lively cinematograph impression of young Patrick Craigie setting the house on fire.
    He was doing it with matches.…
    â€œ Darling , your lead!” said Elissa sharply.
    Rapidly concealing her agitation, Lesley laid a card on the table, discovered too late that it was the Ace, and apologised all round. His sleeping-suit