“In the main—­yes.”  Pamela was more serious this time.  “One’s doing one’s job, after all.  And human beings are interesting.”

“But I’ve got that too.  My job, and human beings....  Why do I feel all tossed about, like a boat on a choppy sea?  Oh, I know life’s furiously amusing and exciting—­of course it is.  But I want something solid.  You’ve got it, somehow.”

Nan broke off and thought “It’s Frances Carr she’s got.  That’s permanent.  That goes on.  Pamela’s anchored.  All these people I have—­these men and women—­they’re not anchors, they’re stimulants, and how different that is!”

They looked at each other in silence.  Pamela said then, “You don’t look well, child.”

“Oh—­” Nan threw her cigarette end impatiently into the grate.  “I’m all right.  I’m tired, and I’ve been thinking too much.  That never suits me....  Thanks, Pam.  You’ve helped me to make up my mind.  I like you, Pam,” she added dispassionately, “because you’re so gentlewomanly.  You don’t ask questions, or pry.  Most people do.”

“Surely not.  Not most decent people.”

“Most people aren’t decent.  You think they are.  You’ve not lived in my set—­nor in Rosalind’s.  You’re still fresh from Oxford—­stuck all over with Oxford manners and Oxford codes.  You don’t know the raddled gossip who fishes for your secrets and then throws them about for fun, like tennis balls.”

“I know Rosalind, thank you, Nan.”

“Oh, Rosalind’s not the only one, though she’ll do.  Anyhow I’ve trapped you into saying an honest and unkind thing about her, for once; that’s something.  Wish you weren’t such a dear old fraud, Pammie.”

Frances Carr came back, in her dressing gown, looking about twenty-three, her brown hair in two plaits.

“Pamela, you mustn’t sit up any more.  I’m awfully sorry, Nan, but her head....”

“Right oh.  I’m off.  Sorry I’ve kept you up, Pammie.  Good-night.  Good-night, Frances.  Yes, I shall get the bus at the corner.  Good-night.”

The door closed after Nan, shutting in the friends and their friendship and their anchored peace.

3

Off went Nan on the bus at the corner, whistling softly into the night.  Like a bird her heart rose up and sang, at the lit pageant of London swinging by.  Queer, fantastic, most lovely life!  Sordid, squalid, grotesque life, bitter as black tea, sour as stale wine!  Gloriously funny, brilliant as a flower-bed, bright as a Sitwell street in hell—­

  “(Down in Hell’s gilded street
  Snow dances fleet and sweet,
  Bright as a parakeet....)”

unsteady as a swing-boat, silly as a drunkard’s dream, tragic as a poem by Massfield....  To have one’s corner in it, to run here and there about the city, grinning like a dog—­what more did one want?  Human adventures, intellectual adventures, success, even a little fame, men and women, jokes, laughter and love, dancing and a little drink, and the fields and mountains and seas beyond—­what more did one want?