II
Mary Durrant woke with a start.
She had been dreaming—dreaming that she was a child, back again inNew York.
How odd. She hadn’t thought of those days for years.
It was really surprising that she could remember anything at all. Howold had she been? Five? Six?
She had dreamed that she was being taken home to the tenement¹ fromthe hotel. The Argyles were sailing for England and not taking her withthem after all. Anger and rage filled her heart for a moment or two untilthe realization² came that it had only been a dream.
How wonderful it had been. Taken into the car, going up in the elevatorof the hotel to the eighteenth floor. The big suite³, that wonderful bath-room; the revelation of what things there were in the world—if you wererich! If she could stay here, if she could keep all this—for ever….
Actually, there had been no difficulty at all. All that was needed was ashow of affection; never easy for her, for she was not affectionate by dis-position, but she had managed it. And there she was, established for life! Arich father and mother, clothes, cars, ships, aeroplanes, servants to waiton her, expensive dolls and toys. A fairy tale come true….
A pity that all those other children had had to be there, too. That was thewar, of course. Or would it have happened anyway? That insatiablemother love! Really something unnatural⁴ in it. So animal.
She had always felt a faint contempt for her adopted mother. Stupid inany case to choose the children she had chosen. The under- privileged!
Criminal tendencies like Jacko’s. Unbalanced like Hester. A savage⁵ likeMicky. And Tina, a half-caste! No wonder they had all turned out badly.
Though she couldn’t really blame them for rebelling. She, herself, had re-belled. She remembered her meeting with Philip, a dashing young pilot.
Her mother’s disapproval⁶. “These hurried marriages. Wait until the war isover.” But she hadn’t wanted to wait. She had as strong a will as hermother’s, and her father had backed her up. They had married, and thewar had ended soon afterwards.

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