And now here they actually were in London, established at a quiet and expensive hotel; but the problem of Angela’s birthday present had, it seemed, only just begun for Stephen. She had not the least idea what she wanted, or what Angela wanted, which was far more important; and she did not know how to get rid of her mother, who appeared to dislike going out unaccompanied. For three days of the four Stephen fretted and fumed; never had Anna seemed so dependent. At Morton they now led quite separate lives, yet here in London they were always together. Scheme as she might she could find no excuse for a solitary visit to Bond Street. However, on the morning of the fourth and last day, Anna succumbed to a devastating headache. Stephen said: ‘I think I’ll go and get some air, if you really don’t need me—I’m feeling energetic!’ ‘Yes, do—I don’t want you to stay in,’ groaned Anna, who was longing for peace and an aspirin tablet. Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she met; she was quite absurdly elated. ‘Drive to the Piccadilly end of Bond Street,’ she ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Then she put her head quickly out of the window: ‘And when you get to the corner, please stop. I don’t want you to drive along Bond Street, I’ll walk. I want you to stop at the Piccadilly corner.’ But when she was actually standing on the corner—the left-hand corner—she began to feel doubtful as to which side of Bond Street she ought to tackle first. Should she try the right side or keep to the left? She decided to try the right side. Crossing over, she started to walk along slowly. At every jeweller’s shop she stood still and gazed at the wares displayed in the window. Now she was worried by quite a new problem, the problem of stones, there were so many kinds. Emeralds or rubies or perhaps just plain diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds nor rubies—Angela’s colouring demanded whiteness. Whiteness—she had it! Pearls—no, one pearl, one flawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela had once described such a ring with envy, but alas, it had been born in Paris. People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intent upon feminine adornments. And some one, a man, laughed and nudged his companion: ‘Look at that! What is it?’ ‘My God! What indeed?’ She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her way into the shop. She said rather loudly: ‘I want a pearl ring.’ ‘A pearl ring? What kind, madam?’ She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: ‘I don’t quite know—but it must be a large one.’ ‘For yourself?’ And she thought that the man smiled a little. Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered: ‘No—oh, no—it’s not for myself, it’s for a friend. She’s asked me to choose her a large pearl ring.’ To her own ears the words sounded foolish and flustered.