‘And I thought — Anna, I wish I could explain it. It was really a revelation. I thought: I’ve been married to him for years and years, and all that time I’ve been — wrapped up in him. Well, women are, aren’t they? I’ve thought of nothing else. I’ve cried myself to sleep night after night for years. And I’ve made scenes, and been a fool and been unhappy and … The point is, what for? I’m serious, Anna.’ Anna smiled, and Marion went on: ‘Because the point is, he’s not anything, is he? He’s not even very good-looking. He’s not even very intelligent — I don’t care if he is ever so important and a captain of industry. Do you see what I mean?’ ‘Well, and then?’ ‘I thought, My God, for that creature I’ve ruined my life. I remember the moment exactly. I was sitting at the breakfast-table, wearing a sort of negligee thing I’d bought because he likes me in that sort of thing — you know, frills and flowers, or well, he used to like me in them. I’ve always hated them. And I thought, for years and years I’ve even been wearing clothes I hated, just to please this creature.’

Anna laughed. Marion was laughing, her handsome face alive with self-critical irony, and her eyes sad and truthful. ‘It’s humiliating, isn’t it, Anna?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘But I bet you’ve never made a fool of yourself about any stupid man. You’ve got too much sense.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Anna drily. But she saw this was a mistake; it was necessary for Marion to see her, Anna, as self-sufficient, and non-vulnerable.

Marion, not hearing what Anna had said, insisted: ‘No, you’ve got too much sense, and that’s why I admire you.’ Marion now held her glass between tense fingers. She took a gulp of whisky; another, another, another — Anna forced herself not to look. She heard Marion’s voice: ‘And then there’s that girl Jean. When I saw her it was another revelation. He’s in love with her, so he says. But who’s he in love with, that’s the point. He’s just in love with a type, something that strikes his box.’ The crudity of the words strikes his box, surprising from Marion, made Anna look back at her. Marion sat tense, her large body rigid and upright in the chair, lips tight, fingers claw-like around the empty glass into which she gazed, avidly.

‘And so what’s this love? He never loved me. He loves large brown-haired girls with large bosoms. I used to have a lovely bosom when I was young.’

‘Nut-brown maid,’ said Anna, watching the avid hand curl around the empty glass.

‘Yes. And so it’s got nothing to do with me. That’s what I’ve decided. He probably doesn’t even know what I’m like. And so why do we talk about love?’