Sheilah had been at home nearly three weeks when the telephone bell rang one morning about half-past eleven. She was in the kitchen, scouring the brass faucets over the sink. She wore gloves. She was very careful of her hands since her return from Avidon's. She kept them as nicely as she made the beds now. One could, if one cared enough. Rubber gloves for cutting vegetables, cotton gloves for cleaning brass and silver, kid gloves for the appliance of rose-water and glycerine at night. She pulled off her cotton gloves now, and went into the dining-room. Probably the provision-man who was supposed to call her at nine-thirty.
'Hello.'
'Hello.'
It was not the provision-man!
'May I speak to Mrs. Nawn?'
'This is she.'
'Hello, Sheilah.' And then, as if she didn't know—as if she hadn't known from the first instant that he had spoken—'This is Roger Dallinger,' the voice announced. 'How are you?'
'All right. How are you?'
