I opened the door and placed my hand on Arnold's chest. "Go in and look at her," I said to Francis. "There's some blood."

Arnold began to call out, "Let me see you, please, darling, don't be angry, oh please—I pushed him back towards the head of the stairs. Francis went inside and locked the door again, whether out of delicacy or professional caution.

Arnold sat down on the stairs and began to moan. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear—" My awkward appalled embarrassment mingled now with a horrible fascinated interest. Arnold, beyond caring about what impression he made, was running his hands again and again through his hair. "Oh I am a bloody fool, I am a bloody fool—I said, "Steady on. What happened exactly?"

"Where are the scissors?" shouted Francis from within.

"Top drawer dressing table," Arnold shouted back. "Christ, what does he want scissors for? Is he going to operate or something?"

"What happened? Look, better move down a bit."

I pushed Arnold and he hobbled stooping, holding the banisters, past the turn of the stair, and sat on the lowest step, holding his head in his hands and staring at the zigzag design of the hall carpet. The hall was always a bit dim because of the stained glass in the door. I went down past him and sat on a chair, feeling very odd, upset, excited.

"Oh Christ, oh Christ. Do you think she'll forgive me?"

"Of course. What—?"

"Thank God," said Arnold. "Do you know, I think she may have been shamming all the time. Anyway, thank God. What should—?"

"There's nothing seriously wrong. She's got a very nasty lump on her head and she's a bit in shock. Could be a touch of concussion. Keep her in bed and keep the room dark. Aspirins, any of her usual sedatives, hot-water bottles, hot drinks, I mean tea and that. Better let her see her own doctor. She'll soon be herself again."

"Oh thank you so much, Doctor," said Arnold. "So she's all right, thank heaven."

"She wants to see you," said Francis to me. We had all moved back up to the landing.

Arnold began again calling, "My darling, please—"I'll deal," I said. I half opened the bedroom door, which was unlocked.

"Only Bradley. Only Bradley." The voice, still almost inaudible, was firmer.

"Oh Christ. This is awful. I've had enough—" said Arnold. "Darling—"You go down and give yourself another drink," I told him.

"I wouldn't mind a drink," said Francis.

"Oh don't be angry with me, darling—"Could you chuck out my mac," said Francis. "I left it in there on the floor."

I went in and threw the macintosh out and closed the door again.

I heard retreating steps as Arnold and Francis went away down the stairs.

"Lock the door, please."

I locked it.

Francis had pulled the curtains and there was a sort of thick pink twilight in the room. The evening sun, now palely shining, made the big floppy flowers on the chintz curtains glow in a melancholy way. The room had the rather sinister tedium which some bedrooms have, a sort of weary banality which is a reminder of death. A dressing table can be a terrible thing. The Baffins had placed theirs in the window where it obstructed the light and presented its ugly back to the road. The plate-glass "table" surface was dusty and covered with cosmetic tubes and bottles and balls of hair. The chest of drawers had all its drawers gaping, spewing pink underwear and shoulder straps. The bed was chaotic, violent, the green artificial— silk coverlet swooping down on one side and the sheets and blankets creased up into a messy mass, like an old face. There was a warm intimate embarrassing smell of sweat and face powder. The whole room breathed the flat horror of genuine mortality, dull and spiritless and final.