“Is she?” said George negligently.  “Perhaps she is.  I never thought of her like that.”

Turnham Green Station was announced.

III

Despite the fresh pinky horrors of its external architecture, and despite his own desire and firm intention to the contrary, George was very deeply impressed by the new Orgreave home.  It was far larger than the previous house.  The entrance was spacious, and the drawing-room, with a great fire at either end, immense.  He had never been in an interior so splendid.  He tried to be off-hand in his attitude towards it, but did not fully succeed.  The taste shown in the decoration and furniture was almost unexceptionable.  White walls—­Heppel-white; chintz—­black, crackling chintz strewn with tens of thousands of giant roses.  On the walls were a few lithographs—­John’s contribution to the general effect.  John having of late years begun to take himself seriously as a collector of lithographs.

One-third of the room was divided from the rest by an arched and fretted screen of red lacquer, and within this open cage stood Mrs. John, surveying winsomely the expanse of little tables, little chairs, big chairs, huge chairs, sofas, rugs, flower-vases, and knick-knacks.  She had an advantage over most blondes nearing the forties in that she had not stoutened.  She was in fact thin as well as short; but her face was too thin.  Still, it dimpled, and she held her head knowingly on one side, and her bright hair was wonderfully done up.  Dressed richly as she was, and assisted by the rejuvenating magic of jewels, she produced, in the shadow of the screen, a notable effect of youthful vivacity, which only the insult of close inspection could destroy.  With sinuous gestures she waved Mr. Enwright’s metaphorical palm before the approaching George.  Her smile flattered him; her frail, dinging hand flattered him.  He had known her in her harsh morning moods; he had seen that persuasive, manufactured mask vanish for whole minutes, to reveal a petty egotism, giving way, regardless of appearances, to rage; he clearly observed now the hard, preoccupied eyes.  Nevertheless, the charm which she exercised was undeniable.  Her husband was permanently under its spell.  There he stood, near her, big, coarsening, good-natured, content, proud of her.  He mixed a cocktail and he threw a match into the fire, in exactly the old Five Towns manner, which he would never lose.  But as for her, she had thrown off all trace of the Five Towns; she had learnt London, deliberately, thoroughly.  And even George, with the unmerciful, ruthless judgment of his years, was obliged to admit that she possessed a genuine pertinacity and had marvellously accomplished an ambition.  She had held John Orgreave for considerably over a decade; she had had the tremendous courage to Leave the heavy provincial manufacturer, her first husband; she had passed through the Divorce Court as a respondent without blenching; she had slowly darned