‘You must come.’ ‘I’d love to.’ To see one of the circle detached and against a separate background of home and parents would be interesting: though, alas, Martin’s father had died. It was he who had been brother to Mariella’s mother, and to the father of Julian and Charlie, and of Roddy. Martin’s mother was quite external.... Still, there might be portraits, photographs, all sorts of family things.... She detached her hand from his, and started to run. The train was not even signalled yet. In five minutes she could be with Roddy. She would make some excuse--say she had left something. She could reckon on a clear quarter of an hour at least in which to see him, tell him she was sorry, tell him ... and quickly go away again. * * * * * She knocked on the sitting-room door. ‘Come in,’ said a cross voice. ‘Roddy,’ she said timidly, standing at the door. ‘I’ve come to see you. Just to ask how you are. Only for a minute. Am I disturbing you?’ ‘Oh, come in, Judy.’ His voice was polite and surprised. He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its own dark-blooded feverish pulse. ‘Nice of you to come, Judy.’ His voice made him utterly unapproachable. ‘How cool you look. Did you enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too hot to be comfortable anywhere.’ ‘It was horrid without you, Roddy.’ ‘Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was bland and cold. ‘Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Roddy--it was all spoilt for me when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’ ‘Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own stupid fault.’ ‘Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’ He laughed. ‘I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so concerned about me.’ He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sympathising with him. ‘Then there’s nothing I can do for you?’ ‘Nothing at all, thank you, Judith.’ He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expression. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient gesture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and started to draw figures on the blotter. ‘You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You ought to rest.’