Beneath her signature came Julian’s pencil again: ‘I have sent for Peter.’
7
In the early afternoon, the taxi drew up beneath the archway of College, and she saw once more the red-tiled floor, the cold polished walls, the official bleakness and decorous ugliness of the entrance hall.
The portress had been her special friend. She opened the door of the lodge, expecting a joyful smile: but the elderly woman sitting at the table was unfamiliar.
‘Is the portress out?’
‘I’m the portress, Miss.’
‘I don’t think I remember you.’
‘No, Miss. I only came this term.’
‘Ah, yes. How do you like it?’
‘Well it’s all a bit difficult to get into, Miss. Hard like.’