“It ought to be their children,” thought Nan, swiftly.  “But they pour it out on one another instead.”

Having put her hand on the clue, she ceased to be interested in the exhibition.  It was, in fact, no more and no less interesting than if it had been their children.  Most sorts of love were rather dull, to the spectator.  Pamela and Frances were all right; decent people, not sloppy, not gushing, but fine and direct and keen, though rather boring when they began to talk to each other about some silly old thing that had happened in their last year at Oxford, or their first year, or on some reading party.  Some people re-live their lives like this; others pass on their way, leaving the past behind.  They were all right, Pamela and Frances.  But all this mothering....

Yet how happy they were, these two, in their useful, competent work and devoted friendship.  They had achieved contacts with life, permanent contacts.  Pamela, in spite of her neuralgia, expressed calm and entirely unbumptious attainment, Nan feverish seeking.  For Nan’s contacts with life were not permanent, but suddenly vivid and passing; the links broke and she flew off at a tangent.  Nan had lately been taken with a desperate fear of becoming like her mother, when she was old and couldn’t write any more, or love any more men.  Horrible thought, to be like Mrs. Hilary, roaming, questing, feverishly devoured by her own impatience of life....

In here it was cool and calm, soft and blurred with the smoke of their cigarettes.  Frances Carr left them to talk, telling them not to be late.  When she had gone, Pamela said “I thought you were still down at Windover, Nan.”

“Left it on Saturday....  Mother and Grandmama had been there a week.  I couldn’t stick it any longer.  Mother was outrageously jealous, of course.”

“Neville and Grandmama?  Poor mother.”

“Oh yes, poor mother.  But it gets on my nerves.  Neville’s an angel.  I can’t think how she sticks it.  For that matter, I never know how she puts up with Rodney’s spoilt fractiousness....  And altogether life was a bit of a strain ... no peace.  And I wanted some peace and solitude, to make up my mind in.”

“Are you making it up now?” Pamela, mildly interested, presumed it was a man.

“Trying to.  It isn’t made yet.  That’s why I roam about your horrible slums in the dark.  I’m considering; getting things into focus.  Seeing them all round.”

“Well, that sounds all right.”

“Pam.”  Nan leant forward abruptly, her cigarette between two brown fingers.  “Are you happy?  Do you enjoy your life?”

Pamela withdrew, lightly, inevitably, behind guards.

“Within reason, yes.  When committees aren’t too tiresome, and the accounts balance, and....”

“Oh, give me a straight answer, Pam.  You dependable, practical people are always frivolous about things that matter.  Are you happy?  Do you feel right-side-up with life?”