At luncheon on the day after his talk with Clare they three sat together—Mrs. Rossiter silent, Clare silent, Peter silent.
Suddenly Peter said: “Oh by the way, Clare, I telephoned for seats this morning for the new thing at the Criterion. I got two stalls.”
They had not been to the theatre together since Stephen's death.
Clare lifted a white face—“I don't think I—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter, smiling across at her—“you'll enjoy it.”
Mrs. Rossiter stroking her large bosom with a flat white hand said, “I don't think Clare—”
“Oh yes,” said Peter again, “it will do her good.”
Mrs. Rossiter smiled. “Get another stall, Peter, and I will come too.”
“I'm afraid,” said Peter very politely, “that it's too late. The piece is a thumping success. I was very lucky to get any seats at all.”
And then Mrs. Rossiter subsided, absolutely subsided ... very strange.