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changed into the gold dress and gulped down the wine and stood looking at myself. I burrowed around for lipstick and after I had put some on I took it off again. Lipstick is ageing. I poured scent on myself. Then I put up my hair.
    Then I took it down.
    Two trays of turkey. A new bottle open by the fire. Your friend observed me through Henry’s eye-glass. “She sent some earrings to go with that,” he said. “Catch.”
    I opened the earring parcel, Joan, and said, “But they must weigh ten tons.” Then I screwed them in and found that they weighed feathers. I said, “They’re like the Fair on the Common. They’re like tambourines. They tickle my shoulders,” and found that silence had fallen in the room and Henry’s monocle shone with a steady gleam. “Lucky earrings,” said he. “Pouilly-fuissé? What shall we play on the tape-deck?”
    â€œMost of them are Requiems . I don’t think I want any music.”
    â€œI certainly don’t want Requiems . Are you quite comfortable?”
    â€œOh yes, very.”
    â€œAnd I see that you were hungry.”
    I looked down and saw that I’d eaten all my turkey, cold roast potatoes, bread-sauce, two kinds of stuffing and a green salad, my glass was empty and there didn’t seem to be much pouilly-fuissé left in the bottle. I thought: Eliza take care, why was he asking if you were comfortable? And I tried to gather myself together to say something safe and hostess-like, such as: “Well, I am glad you—decided to telephone and how is Joan?” But all that came out was a sigh, and I lay back and wished.
    â€œWhy,” he asked, “has that picture got its face to the wall?” He turned it round and said, “Oh well, yes.”
    â€œIt’s one of Henry’s ancestors.”
    â€œPoor fellow.”
    â€œHenry is my husband.”
    â€œOh, I know about Henry.”
    â€œHenry is—. Has Joan said much?”
    â€œNo. Not much. But one divines.”
    â€œShe never writes. At least, not to me. I write often.”
    â€œWhy do you write? Are you a relation?”
    â€œGoodness, you are old-fashioned. It must be living with Indians. You must have been away a long time. Families here aren’t important enough for letters any more. Not even friends write to each other much now.”
    â€œJoan was your close friend then?”
    â€œWell, she was hardly a friend at all. But she left a list of addresses—box-numbers.”
    â€œThen why do you write? Sit there while I go for the plum-pudding.”
    I heard a great conversation going on in the kitchen and, when he returned with silver dishes and the bottle of Courvoisier that is kept in the drinks cupboard, its key, I swear, under the saucer in the study (your friends do drink a lot, Joan), both dogs trotted meekly at his heels.
    â€œVery well,” he was saying to them, “we shall see. It depends entirely on your behaviour the next half hour,” and he handed me plum-pudding and flourished a great white dinner napkin about. Then he sat down to his own plateful at the other side of the fire. The dogs gazed upon him. First one and then the other flopped down, arranged its front paws, laid its chin upon them and continued to gaze. My dog sighed.
    â€œMuch better,” said Tom Hopkin. “Yes?”
    â€œYes, much better.”
    â€œI like to see someone lick a spoon,” he said. “I meant, have you found the answer yet to why you write so compulsively to Joan?”
    I thought, Oh Lord, he thinks I’m a lesbian. He expects the usual throbbing steamy stuff. If I say no, he’ll think I’m just not facing the new so-called natural world. Oh shitto, as Sarah would say.
    â€œLooking at you and the blushing and so on I see that your interest in Joan is quite holy. Sex with you would not be paramount.”
    I felt wretched.
    â€œI haven’t much interest in Joan in