“Yes, yes, to-morrow, don’t worry,” George shouted to the children. “Mr. Martin’s been awfully kind at keeping them amused,” said Phyllis. “Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Brook, Miss Clyde.--George, turn on the light, Mr. Martin can’t _see_ us.” The button clicked, the bulbs jumped to attention, mere loops of pale wire beside the orange shaft of sun. Martin scrambled suddenly to his feet. “How do you do,” he said. * * * * * “What stunning towels,” Ruth remarked as Phyllis was pointing out the hot-water tap. The embroidery of Phyllis’s maiden initials was luxuriously illegible, in some sort of Old High German character. “Surely those didn’t come with the house?” “No; they’re mine; all that’s left of my trousseau. What George calls my pre-war towels.” But Ruth was too busy in her own thoughts to pursue little jokes. “Your artist man is rather extraordinary,” she said. “Why should any one so attractive need to be so bashful?” “He’s not really bashful.--There, I think you’ll find everything you need.” * * * * * The light twinkled on a tray of yellowish glasses on the sideboard. George unlocked the cupboard, took out a bottle, and split open a new box of cigarettes with his thumbnail. There’s a consolation in having these small things to do, he thought. Meanwhile, what am I really thinking of? I suppose she’s washing her hands. It’s awkward having her downstairs. She’ll want to change.... I don’t believe she’s got a mirror in there. We can hardly expect her to use the bookcase panes. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “Ben, pour the tonic. It’s good stuff.” Mr. Martin was still standing by the door uncertainly, holding the toy engine. Heavens, does the fellow have to be moved round like a chess man? He’s so difficult to talk to, somehow. George made a cordial gesture, indicating that Mr. Martin might as well join Ben at the sideboard. Martin crossed the room obediently. The anxious host glanced into the sitting room. Yes: Phyllis, with her usual skill, had turned the desk into a dressing table: there was a fresh doily on it, a vase of flowers, and the mirror from his own bureau upstairs. Already, though she hadn’t entered it yet, the room was no longer his but Joyce’s. It had become private, precious, and strange. Here, in the very centre of his own muddled affairs, was suddenly a kernel of unattainable magic. Why in God’s name had Phyllis put her in his room? It was too savagely ironic. In my heart, in my mind, in my very bed, and I can’t even speak to her. It’s too farcical. If I didn’t have to keep it secret we could all laugh about it. Secrecy is the only poison. He carried in Joyce’s suitcase and paint box, put them on the couch, and fled. “Well, Ben, I saved my last bottle for this party. It’ll help us live through the Picnic. Mr. Martin, aren’t you drinking?” “What is it?” asked Martin. “Try it and see. You don’t need to worry. It’s real.”