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man talking on a mobile phone. ‘Changes all round.’ It was at this point that she laid her money on top of her bill, as if to forestall a confession that would have pained them both. ‘Until tomorrow, Mario,’ she would say, and, shaking his hand once again, would get up to leave.
    This exchange satisfied them both, each aware without need of explanation of the other’s frailty. Mrs May was not a robust woman but she thought of herself as durable and on a good day still was. She was simply and on the whole uncomplainingly conscious that at her age something unpleasant was to be expected. That was how she thought of her inevitable decline: as something unpleasant that could no longer be avoided. With her odd attacks of breathlessness she was almost at home. They had been with her for some little while, and she had even gone so far as to consult Monty Goldmark, Henry’s doctor, and, she supposed, her doctor now, although she never visited him. To visit him would be to acknowledge that something was wrong, that something stood in the wayof that easy friendship that had served him so well in Henry’s case. There had been a single consultation. As if conscious of his status as a sometime friend, he had made light of her studiedly careless explanation, had merely taken her pulse and felt her throat, and had then filled out a prescription for some kind of sedative, which she took only rarely. ‘You are a sensitive plant, Dorothea,’ he had said. ‘Anxiety is all that is wrong with you. No wonder, after losing Henry. Such a dear boy. Appetite all right?’
    She was grateful to him for dismissing her complaint (although it was hardly a complaint at all), grateful to him for maintaining an approach more social than medical, although it did occur to her that it might be sensible to consult a cardiologist. This matter occasionally preoccupied her, more so when she felt out of sorts, but the prospect of a visit to Harley Street was enough to frighten her into precisely the attack of breathlessness she so feared. In time she no longer dreaded the attacks; rather she congratulated herself on having nothing further to do with doctors. The attacks were infrequent, and if she were at home when they occurred could be controlled, if she sat quietly in her bedroom, without recourse to the pills. The pills were on her bedside table; they kept vigil there. That was their function. She preferred to rely on her own inner resources, which must be considerable, although she had never noticed them. Henry had told her that he had married her precisely because he admired her inner resources. At the time she had not thought this much of a compliment. She was enough of a woman to wish to be thought attractive, but enough of a realist to know that her modest looks would pass unnoticed in even the most indulgent company. It was a curious fact that she was no worse-looking now than she had been in middle age. It was only when she raised a liver-spottedhand to quell her fluttering heart that she noticed that she had grown old, and was then obliged to summon up what inner strengths she possessed. Yet, knowing how much these strengths would have to exert themselves, she still sometimes wished that she could do without them, could throw herself on the bounty of others, could simply charge a doctor with the task of making her better, could sit back irresponsibly and wait for the miraculous cure, the miraculous gratification. She was obliged to exert her will in most of the circumstances that others took for granted. Only the most placid routines stood between herself and exhaustion.
    Part of her sympathy with Mario was for his sorrowful anticipation of his empty afternoon. She knew how hard this must be for a man in retirement. In some ways it was fortunate that Henry had not had to endure this, had been in touch with his fellow directors even when confined to his room. Of those last weeks she preferred not to think. Sitting dry-eyed by his bed, she was