hoped for one in Stockholm. Were they staying there long? the woman asked.
Kate said: âWe live there.â
âAh,â the man said. He hesitated: âWe come from Coventry.â He was one of those men who are scrupulously fair in sharing information. He screwed his eyes up at her as if he were watching the movement of a delicate laboratory balance: another milligram was needed. âOur nameâs Davidge.â His wife, a little behind him, nodded approval: the balance was correct. She sighed with relief at the delicate adjustment; she was able now to think of other things, to correct the set of her gown in the large mirror on the back wall, to tuck away a stray grey hair, to smooth her gloves, to hint with delicacy that they would soon be gone.
âAre you on a tour?â Kate asked, and noticed how the girl who shared none of their delicacies, who seemed a deliberate reversal of all the gentility they represented, protesting with badly chosen lipstick against their dim colours, their careful distinctions, had a sensibility which recognized her hostility, while they were aware only of her courtesy.
âAn individual tour,â Mrs Davidge gently defined.
âIâm sure,â Kate said, with deliberate vagueness, âwe shall see you again.â
But the girl lingered. While her parents stepped with an exaggerated elderly care down into the little brown garden between the terrace and the split drum, she remained obstinately planted. She was like a small wood image, brightly painted, set to some vulgar use among the dining-tables; one looked for the ash-tray and the cigarette stumps.
âI can manage Tuesday,â she said.
âThatâs fine,â Anthony said, fiddling with a fork. Kate was sorry for her, for her crude innocence, but it didnât suit her purpose to have Anthony reminded of what heâd been saved from; the girl represented at that moment the lights behind the bicycles, the leaves on Warren Street pavement, the port in the Ladiesâ Bar.
âSo you can manage Tuesday,â Kate said, watching the girl rejoin her parents among the stacked chairs. âAnd you saved the Ministerâs life.â
âOneâs got to spin a yarn,â Anthony said, âand they paid for lunch.â
âI paid for your breakfast, but I never noticed you spinning anything for me.â
âAh, Kate,â he said, âyou know all my stories. Havenât I always written â?â
âNo,â Kate said, âyouâve written very seldom. Telegrams for Father; picture post-cards; how many picture post-cards; picture post-cards from Siam, from China, from India; I donât remember any letters.â
He grinned. âI must have forgotten to post them. Why, I remember a long letter I wrote to congratulate you when you got your job at Kroghâs.â
âA picture post-card.â
âAnd when Father died.â
âA telegram.â
âWell, it cost more. Iâd never spare expense for you, Kate.â He became serious. âPoor thing, youâve had no lunch. It was a shame to start without you, but they invited me. It was a chance of saving money.â
âTony,â Kate said, âif you werenât my brother ââ She let the sentence drift away over the crumbs and the soiled glasses unfinished, meaningless. What was the good?
âYouâd be gone on me,â Anthony said, turning on her the same glance as he turned, she knew, on every waitress, calculated interest, calculated childishness, a charm of which every ingredient had been tested and stored for further use. The thought came to her: If I could put back time, if I could twist this ring Krogh gave me and abolish all this place, the big drum and the dropping leaves and that face of mine in the mirror there, it would be dark now and a wind outside and the smell of manure and he with his cap in his hand, and Iâd say: