Jerrold’s mother lay out there on a pile of cushions, in the sun.  She was very large and very beautiful.  She lay on her side, heaved up on one elbow.  Under her thin white gown you could see the big lines of her shoulder and hip, and of her long full thigh, tapering to the knee.

Anne crouched beside her, uncomfortably, holding her little body away from the great warm mass among the cushions.

Mrs. Fielding was aware of this shrinking.  She put out her arm and drew Anne to her side again.

“Lean back,” she said.  “Close.  Closer.”

And Anne would lean close, politely, for a minute, and then stiffen and shrink away again when the soft arm slackened.

Eliot Fielding (the clever one) lay on his stomach, stretched out across the terrace.  He leaned over a book:  Animal Biology.  He was absorbed in a diagram of a rabbit’s heart and took no notice of his mother or of Anne.

Anne had been at the Manor five days, and she had got used to Jerrold’s mother’s caresses.  All but one.  Every now and then Mrs. Fielding’s hand would stray to the back of Anne’s neck, where the short curls, black as her frock, sprang out in a thick bunch.  The fingers stirred among the roots of Anne’s hair, stroking, stroking, lifting the bunch and letting it fall again.  And whenever they did this Anne jerked her head away and held it stiffly out of their reach.

She remembered how her mother’s fingers, slender and silk-skinned and loving, had done just that, and how their touch went thrilling through the back of her neck, how it made her heart beat.  Mrs. Fielding’s fingers didn’t thrill you, they were blunt and fumbling.  Anne thought:  “She’s no business to touch me like that.  No business to think she can do what mother did.”

She was always doing it, always trying to be a mother to her.  Her father had told her she was going to try.  And Anne wouldn’t let her.  She would not let her.

“Why do you move your head away, darling?”

Anne didn’t answer.

“You used to love it.  You used to come bending your funny little neck and turning first one ear and than the other.  Like a little cat.  And now you won’t let me touch you.”

“No.  No.  Not—­like that.”

“Yes.  Yes.  Like this.  You don’t remember.”

“I do remember.”

She felt the blunt fingers on her neck again and started up.  The beautiful, wilful woman lay back on her cushions, smiling to herself.

“You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?” she said.

Anne’s eyes were glassed.  She shook her head fiercely and spilled tears.

Jerrold had come up on to the terrace.  Colin trotted after him.  They were looking at her.  Eliot had raised his head from his book and was looking at her.

“It is rotten of you, mater,” he said, “to tease that kid.”

“I’m not teasing her.  Really, Eliot, you do say things—­as if nobody but yourself had any sense.  You can run away now, Anne darling.”