Puddle knew quite well that Stephen was unhappy. They had not lived side by side all these years, for Puddle to fail now in intuition; she felt certain that something grave had happened, and her instinct warned her of what this might be, so that she secretly trembled a little. For no young and inexperienced girl sat beside her, but a woman of nearly thirty-two, who was far beyond the reach of her guidance. This woman would settle her problems for herself and in her own way—had indeed always done so. Puddle must try to be tactful in her questions.
She said gently: ‘Tell me about your new friend. You met her in the Unit?’
‘Yes—we met in the Unit, as I told you this evening—her name’s Mary Llewellyn.’
‘How old is she, Stephen?’
‘Not quite twenty-two.’
Puddle said: ‘Very young—not yet twenty-two . . .’ then she glanced at Stephen, and fell silent.
But now Stephen went on talking more quickly: ‘I’m glad you asked me about her, Puddle, because I intend to give her a home. She’s got no one except some distant cousins, and as far as I can see they don’t want her. I shall let her have a try at typing my work, as she’s asked to, it will make her feel independent; otherwise, of course, she’ll be perfectly free—if it’s not a success she can always leave me—but I rather hope it will be a success. She’s companionable, we like the same things, anyhow she’ll give me an interest in life. . . .’
Puddle thought: ‘She’s not going to tell me.’
Stephen took out her cigarette case from which she produced a clear little snapshot: ‘It’s not very good, it was done at the front.’
But Puddle was gazing at Mary Llewellyn. Then she looked up abruptly and saw Stephen’s eyes—without a word she handed back the snapshot.