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a sign of Henry’s elegance, of his desire to spare her, that made him move to what became his room when certain of his symptoms became noticeable. He had known what was in store for him. When the evidence could no longer be concealed they had entered into a conspiracy, the three of them, she and Henry and Monty Goldmark, to carry the whole thing off as best they could. It had been done, although it had left gaps in their conversation. Attimes a monstrous cheerfulness prevailed. She had been there throughout, had been there on the day he died, holding his hand, and yet it was with a savage relief that she had thrown away all his pills, stripped the bed, opened the windows, and, ten days later, after the funeral, had made up the bed again with clean linen, had closed the windows, and shut the door behind her forever.
    Nothing of Henry remained in that room except the knowledge of his disappearance from her life. Yet in the spare room, the room that was to be invaded, plundered, she could still see him as she had so often seen him when he woke from an afternoon nap, his hair wild, his gaze turned inward. She had not felt easy until he put himself to rights and drank his tea. When he was once more cheerfully back to normal, and as likely as not on the telephone, she would go in and straighten the coverlet on which he had lain, glancing out at the street in the hope of seeing lighted windows, signs of life. There had been none, only the pall of darkness and a fear that all might not be well, that the night would bring no comfort because sleep had become inimical, and because Henry’s sleep had held a warning that she had not fully understood. Later, sitting by his bed, in the course of one of those lengthy dozes which had become habitual in his last illness, she had understood her fearfulness. Consequently she had rather taken against the spare room in which he had slept so many times. She strove to be reasonable, and on the whole succeeded. She regretted anything nebulous, mysterious, immanent. She abhorred atmospheres, portents. Nevertheless she preferred to keep the door of the spare room permanently closed.
    Now, however, it was necessary to open it once again. In the sunlight, as opposed to the darkness of those distant winters,it looked reassuringly ordinary, if a little bare. Mrs May contemplated the Indian bedspread on which Henry had lain and decided to get rid of it. The room deserved something light, something new, without associations. She would go to one of the stores, John Lewis, she thought, and see what she could find. It was a point of honour that this Steve should find nothing amiss with her hospitality, even though the thought of him made her quail. It would be the same with any stranger, she told herself, even a woman. Revising her earlier estimate of the situation, she reflected that a woman would be worse. At least a man, and a young man at that, would want to keep out of her way, no doubt repelled by the very idea of sharing living space with a pensioner. Another woman would want to chat, wash her clothes, wash her hair, whereas a young man could be confined to his room, like a prisoner. She did not quite see how this was to be managed, but hoped that he would take his cue from her. She would prepare his breakfast and then make it clear that she did not expect to see him for the rest of the day.
    In the midst of these calculations, standing in the middle of the room, the Indian bedspread in her hands, the irony of her position struck her anew. She was about to become a prisoner herself, at the behest of Kitty and her ruthless arrangements. And yet she could not blame Kitty for her own unpreparedness. What did she know of young men? There had been few in her own young years, which had been all duty, uncomplaining duty. She had thought that duty ruled everyone’s life, and in her heart of hearts still did. That was why she had acceded to Kitty’s request, seeing her own idleness as a refuge from the world