Frances believed in permanence because, in secret, she abhorred the thought of change.  And she abhorred the thought of change because, at thirty-three, she had got all the things she wanted.  But only for the last ten years out of the thirty-three.  Before that (before she was Mrs. Anthony), wanting things, letting it be known that you wanted them, had meant not getting them.  So that it was incredible how she had contrived to get them all.  She had not yet left off being surprised at her own happiness.  It was not like things you take for granted and are not aware of.  Frances was profoundly aware of it.  Her happiness was a solid, tangible thing.  She knew where it resided, and what it was made of, and what terms she held it on.  It depended on her; on her truth, her love, her loyalty; it was of the nature of a trust.  But there was no illusion about it.  It was the reality.

She denied that she was arrogant, for she had not taken one of them for granted, not even Dorothy; though a little arrogance might have been excusable in a woman who had borne three sons and only one daughter before she was thirty-two.  Whereas Grannie’s achievement had been four daughters, four superfluous women, of whom Anthony had married one and supported three.

To be sure there was Maurice.  But he was worse than superfluous, considering that most of the time Anthony was supporting Maurice, too.

She had only known one serious anxiety—­lest her flesh and blood should harbour any of the blood and flesh left over after Morrie was made.  She had married Anthony to drive out Morrie from the bodies and souls of her children.  She meant that, through her and Anthony, Morrie should go, and Dorothea, Michael, Nicholas and John should remain.

As Frances looked at the four children, her mouth tightened itself so as to undo the ruinous adoration of her eyes.  She loved their slender bodies, their pure, candid faces, their thick, straight hair that parted solidly from the brush, clean-cut and shining like sheets of polished metal, brown for Dorothy, black-brown for Nicholas, red gold for Michael and white gold for John.  She was glad that they were all made like that; slender and clear and hard, and that their very hair was a thing of clean surfaces and definite edges.  She disliked the blurred outlines of fatness and fuzziness and fluffiness.  The bright solidity of their forms helped her to her adored illusion, the illusion of their childhood as going on, lasting for ever and ever.

They would be the nicest looking children at Mrs. Jervis’s party.  They would stand out solid from the fluffiness and fuzziness and fatness of the others.  She saw people looking at them.  She heard them saying:  “Who are the two little boys in brown linen?”—­“They are Michael and Nicholas Harrison.”  The Funny Man came and said:  “Hello!  I didn’t expect to see you here!” It was Michael and Nicholas he didn’t expect to see; and the noise in the room was Nicky’s darling laughter.