“I’ll go,” she said suddenly.
Phyllis, still leaning forward, was listening.
“Was that one of the children?”
As Joyce rose, getting up with difficulty from the deep settee, Martin closed the sitting-room door with a quick push. Why did he do that? Now it would seem rude to go in there. George, whose ear was cocked toward upstairs, looked angrily at him.
“I didn’t hear anything. You’ve got the children on the brain, Phyl.”
“I’ll go on the veranda while you think of something,” Joyce said.
It was amusing to see how eagerly they all turned to the old almost forgotten pastime. She heard them mumbling together while they concerted their choice. They were like savages at a campfire, rehearsing some cheerful ceremonial to dispel sorcery. The bare mahogany of the dining table was glossed with panels of dim colour. This led her eyes upward to the red and blue window. It reminded her distantly of some poem, some perfect enchantment that mocked the poor futility of her own obsession. That most magic outcry of unreflecting love, from the most wretched of lovers: the eternal collision between life as dreamed and life as encountered.
There was a burst of laughter.
“She’ll never guess that,” she heard Ruth saying.
“All ready,” George called.