But after she had been with Paul Tanner for only a short time, she would say, with the utmost simplicity: ‘Of course, I never loved George.’ As if there was nothing more to be said about it. And as far as she was concerned, there was nothing more to be said. Nor did it worry her at all that all the complicated psychological attitudes were hardly on the same level as: ‘Of course I never loved him,’ with its corollary that: ‘I love Paul.’

Meanwhile she was restless to get away from him and felt trapped — not by him, by the possibilities of her past resurrecting itself in him.

He said: ‘What was the case that sparked off your argument with West?’ He was trying to keep her. She said: ‘Oh, you’re a doctor too, they’re all cases, of course.’ She had sounded shrill and aggressive, and now she made herself smile and said: ‘I’m sorry. But the work worries me more than it should, I suppose.’ ‘I know,’ he said. Dr West would never have said: ‘I know,’ and instantly Ella warmed to him. The frigidity of her manner, which she was unconscious of, and which she could never lose except with people she knew well, melted away at once. She fished in her handbag for the letter, and saw him smile quizzically at the disorder she revealed. He took the letter, smiling. He sat with it in his hand, unopened, looking at her with appreciation, as if welcoming her, her real self, now open to him. Then he read the letter and again sat holding it, this time opened out. ‘What could poor West do? Did you want him to prescribe ointments?’ ‘No, no, of course not.’ ‘She’s probably been pestering her own doctor three times a week ever since’ — he consulted the letter — ‘the 9th of March, 1950. The poor man’s been prescribing every ointment he can think of.’ ‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to answer it tomorrow morning. And about a hundred more.’ She held out her hand for the letter. ‘What are you going to say to her?’ ‘What can I say? The thing is, there are thousands and thousands, probably millions of them.’ The word millions sounded childish, and she looked intently at him, trying to convey her vision of a sagging, dark weight of ignorance and misery. He handed her the letter and said: ‘But what are you going to say?’ ‘I can’t say anything she really needs. Because what she wanted, of course, was for Dr Allsop himself to descend on her, and rescue her, like a knight on a white horse.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘That’s the trouble. I can’t say. Dear Mrs Brown, you haven’t got rheumatism, you’re lonely and neglected, and you’re inventing symptoms to make a claim on the world so that someone will pay attention to you. Well, can I?’ ‘You can say all that, tactfully. She probably knows it herself. You could tell her to make an effort to meet people, join some organization, something like that.’ ‘It’s arrogant, me telling her what to do.’ ‘She’s written for help, so it’s arrogant not to.’ ‘Some organization, you say! But that’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want something impersonal. She’s been married for years and now she feels as if half of herself’s torn away.’