Payne, pettishly hitting at her gong below, announced the proper commencement of day, and the end of privacy.

2

Mr. Thwaites made a habit of being the first in the dining-room for breakfast. No one had ever been known to beat him to it. Five, or even ten minutes before the time, he would be found sitting in his place at the table for four in the corner. It was as though he were fretful for the day to start, to be in his presidential position and to take charge of the day from the beginning. However early they appeared, those who entered after him, saying ‘Good morning, Mr. Thwaites’ and catching his eye, had a distant feeling of being on the mat for being late. Miss Roach did, at any rate.

This morning, the Saturday following the one on which she had had drinks with Vicki Kugelmann at the River Sun, Miss Roach was in the room while the gong was still being hit, and took her place at the table with Mr. Thwaites.

‘Good morning,’ said Mr. Thwaites. ‘You’re very early, aren’t you?’ But this was not intended as a compliment: it still meant that she was late. It implied merely that a chronically late Miss Roach had appeared relatively early upon the scene.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Roach, ‘I suppose I am.’

Mr. Thwaites, fingering his knife, now quietly stared at Miss Roach. When alone with her he frequently stared at her like this, quite unconscious of her embarrassment and even of the fact that he was doing it. It was the preoccupied stare of one who sought to discover some fresh detail in her appearance or demeanour about which he could say or think something nasty. Prepared for this stare, she had come armed with her newspaper, which she now took up, looking at the headlines. She was defiantly conscious of her paper being the News Chronicle, which was, strictly speaking, banned by Mr. Thwaites. All newspapers, with the exception of the Daily Mail, which he himself took, were strictly speaking banned by Mr. Thwaites. But the fires of personal liberty are unextinguishable, even in so unlikely a precinct for their survival as the Rosamund Tea Rooms, and Miss Roach was not actually alone in her defiance. Miss Steele took The Times and Mr. Prest the Daily Mirror.

Miss Steele now came in, followed by Mrs. Barratt and, a little later, by Mr. Prest. Plates of porridge and racks of toast were handed round by Sheila, and breakfast began. The sky had cleared outside, and the sun, low in the sky, now shone into the room with the peculiar yellow brilliance which only a winter sun can achieve. In this hard and revealing light Mr. Thwaites succeeded in looking more immaculately clean and radiantly healthy than ever. There was not even any hope for Miss Roach that Mr.