Mr. Baldock considered.

"In one way, yes, in another way not at all."

"Expound."

"Well, you haven't got very much money. You may need it badly in the future. If you think your attractive husband can be relied upon to provide for you, you can just think again. In that way, you're a fool."

"And the other way?"

"Looking at it the other way, you've paid out your money to buy yourself peace of mind. That may have been quite a wise thing to do." He shot a sharp glance at her. "Still fond of your husband?"

"Yes."

"Is he a good husband to you?"

Shirley walked slowly round the room. Once or twice she ran her finger absently along a table or the back of a chair, and looked at the dust upon it. Mr. Baldock watched her.

She came to a decision at last. Standing by the fireplace, her back turned to him, she said:

"Not particularly."

"In what way?".

In an unemotional voice Shirley said:

"He's having an affair with another woman."

"Serious?"

"I don't know."

"So you came away?"

"Yes."

"Angry?"

"Furious."

"Going back?"

Shirley was silent a moment. Then she said:

"Yes, I am."

"Well," said Mr. Baldock, "it's your life."

Shirley came over to him and kissed the top of his head. Mr. Baldock grunted.

"Thank you, Baldy," she said.

"Don't thank me, I haven't done anything."

"I know," said Shirley. "That's what's so wonderful of you!"

The trouble was, Shirley thought, that one got tired.

She leaned back against the plush of the Underground seat.

Three years ago, she hadn't known what tiredness was. Living in London might be a partial cause. Her work had at first been only part-time, but she now worked full-time at the flower-shop in the West End. After that, there were usually things to buy, and then the journey home in the rush-hour, and then the preparing and cooking of the evening meal.

It was true that Henry appreciated her cooking!

Her eyes closed as she leaned back. Someone trod heavily on her toes and she winced.

She thought: 'But I am tired…'

Her mind went back fitfully over the three and a half years of her married life…

Early bliss…

Bills…

More bills…

Sonia Cleghorn…

Rout of Sonia Cleghorn. Henry penitent, charming, affectionate…

More money difficulties…

Bailiffs…

Muriel to the rescue…

Expensive and unnecessary but quite delightful holiday at Cannes…

The Hon. Mrs. Emlyn Blake…

Deliverance of Henry from the toils of Mrs. Emlyn Blake…

Henry grateful, penitent, charming…

Fresh financial crisis…

Big Bertha to the rescue…

The Lonsdale girl…

Financial worries…

Still the Lonsdale girl…

Laura…

Staving off Laura…

Failure to stave off Laura…

Row with Laura…

Appendicitis. Operation. Convalescence…

Return home…

Final phase of the Lonsdale girl…

Her mind lingered and dwelt on that last item.

She had been resting in the flat. It was the third flat they had lived in, and was filled with furniture bought on the hire purchase system-this last suggested by the incident of the bailiffs.

The bell had rung, and she felt too lazy to get up and open the door. Whoever it was would go away. But whoever it was didn't go away. They rang again and again.

Shirley rose angrily to her feet. She went to the door, pulled it open and stood face to face with Susan Lonsdale.

"Oh, it's you, Sue."

"Yes. Can I come in?"

"Actually I'm rather tired. I've just come back from hospital."

"I know. Henry told me. You poor darling. I've brought you some flowers."

Shirley took the out-thrust bunch of daffodils without any marked expression of gratitude.

"Come in," she said.

She went back to the sofa and put her feet up. Susan Lonsdale sat down in a chair.

"I didn't want to worry you while you were still in hospital," she said. "But I do feel, you know, that we ought to get things settled."

"In what way?"

"Well-Henry."

"What about Henry?"

"Darling, you're not going to be an ostrich, are you? Head in the sand and all that?"

"I don't think so."

"You do know, don't you, that Henry and I have got quite a thing about each other?"

"I should have to be blind and deaf not to know that," said Shirley coldly.

"Yes-yes, of course. And, I mean, Henry's awfully fond of you. He'd hate to upset you in any way. But there it is."

"There what is?"

"What I'm really talking about is divorce."

"You mean that Henry wants a divorce?"

"Yes."

"Then why hasn't he mentioned it?"

"Oh, Shirley darling, you know what Henry's like. He does so hate having to be definite. And he didn't want to upset you."

"But you and he want to get married?"

"Yes. I'm so glad you understand."

"I suppose I understand all right," said Shirley slowly.

"And you'll tell him that it's all right?"

"I'll talk to him, yes."

"It's awfully sweet of you. I do feel that in the end-"

"Oh, go away," said Shirley. "I'm just out of hospital and I'm tired. Go away-at once-do you hear?"

"Well, really," said Susan, rising in some dudgeon. "I do think-well, one might at least be civilised."

She went out of the room and the front door banged.

Shirley lay very still. Once a tear crept slowly down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

'Three years and a half,' she thought. 'Three years and a half… and it's come to this.' And then, suddenly, without being able to help it, she began to laugh. That sentiment sounded so like a line in a bad play.

She didn't know if it was five minutes later or two hours when she heard Henry's key in the door.

He came in looking gay and light-hearted as usual. In his hand was an enormous bunch of long-stemmed yellow roses.

"For you, darling. Nice?"

"Lovely," said Shirley. "I've already had daffodils. Not so nice. Rather cheap and past their prime, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, who sent you those?"

"They weren't sent. They were brought. Susan Lonsdale brought them."

"What cheek," said Henry indignantly.

Shirley looked at him in faint surprise.

"What did she come here for?" he asked.

"Don't you know?"

"I suppose I can guess. That girl's becoming a positive pest."

"She came to tell me that you want a divorce."

"That I want a divorce? From you?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"Of course I don't," said Henry indignantly.

"You don't want to marry Susan?"

"I should hate to marry Susan."

"She wants to marry you."

"Yes, I'm afraid she does." Henry looked despondent. "She's always ringing me up and writing me letters. I don't know what to do about her."

"Did you tell her you wanted to marry her?"

"Oh, one says things," said Henry vaguely. "Or rather they say things and one agrees… One has to, more or less." He gave her an uneasy smile. "You wouldn't divorce me, would you, Shirley?"

"I might," said Shirley.

"Darling-"

"I'm getting rather-tired, Henry."

"I'm a brute. I've given you a rotten deal." He knelt down beside her. The old alluring smile flashed out. "But I do love you, Shirley. All this other silly nonsense doesn't count. It doesn't mean anything. I'd never want to be married to anyone but you. If you'll go on putting up with me?"

"What did you really feel about Susan?"

"Can't we forget about Susan? She's such a bore."

"I'd just like to understand."

"Well-" Henry considered. "For about a fortnight I was mad about her. Couldn't sleep. After that, I still thought she was rather wonderful. After that I thought she was beginning, perhaps, to be just the least bit of a bore. And then she quite definitely was a bore. And just lately she's been an absolute pest."