Several afternoons a week, after putting on her gloves, and hat with eye-veil, Mrs Jolley would not exactly go, she would _proceed__, rather, to her friend's residence at Sarsaparilla. Up the hill and into the street, it was not far, but far enough to turn a walk into a mission. How much solider a pavement sounded. Mrs Jolley would stamp and kick until she felt satis-fled. The mere sight of a bus passing through a built-up area restored a person's circulation, as rounds of beef and honeycombs of tripe fed the spirit, and ironmongery touched the heart. So Mrs Jolley would continue on her way, under the lophostemons, as far as Mildred Street. Five minutes from the Cash-and-Carry, with doctor handy on the corner, it was a most desirable address. So Mrs Jolley would proceed, smiling at the ladies in the windows of their brick homes. She might correct the position of a seam or two. Then she would be ready to arrive. If Mrs Flack's brick looked best of all, her tiles better, brighter-glazed, it was perhaps because of her late husband's connections with the trade. There KARMA stood, the name done in baked enamel. Considering the delicate state of her health, the owner risked too much for neatness, though certainly she paid an elderly man a few shillings to mow the grass, and had almost succeeded in encouraging an older one to do the same for less. On Thursdays, besides, a strong woman coped with any stooping or lifting, but that arrangement might possibly be discontinued. Depending on developments. Mrs Jolley loved the latch at Mrs Flack's. She loved the rustic picket gate. She loved the hedge of Orange Triumph. To run her glove along the surface of Mrs Flack's brick home gave her shivers. The sound of its convenience swept her head over heels into the caverns of envy. As for Mrs Flack herself, she would seldom greet her friend with more than: "Hmmmm!" Or: "Well I never!" Or, at most: "I did not look at the calendar, but might have known." Yet Mrs Jolley understood the significance of it all. She might have been a cat, except that she was rubbing on the air. Mrs Flack was sometimes described as having rather a yellow look, although, more accurately speaking, she was a medium shade of buff. For many years, she told, she had suffered from derangement of the bile. She was the victim of gallstones, too, and varicose veins, to say nothing of her Heart. She was wedded to her Heart, it might have seemed, if it had not been known she was a widow. Yet, in spite of such complications and allegiances, she would get about in a slow, definite way, and even when she had not been there, was remarkably well informed on everything that had happened. Indeed, it had been suggested by those few who were lacking in respect that Mrs Flack was omnipresent-under the beds, even, along with the fluff and the chamber-pots. But most people had too much respect for her presence to question her authority. Her hats were too sober, her reports too factual. Where flippancy is absent, truth can only be inferred, and her teeth were broad and real enough to lend additional weight and awfulness to words. Remarks collapsed on Mrs Jolley's lips in the presence of her friend. _Her friend__. The word was quite alarming, if also magical. Mrs Flack would look up from lashing the Orange Triumphs with the jet from her plastic hose, or, seated in her own lounge, behind a prophetic steam of tea, would simply look, before pronouncing. "That poor soul," she might begin, "who we both know-there is no need to mention names-how she has survived all these years on a slice of bread and dripping, and her relatives well-to-do, not to say downright wealthy. They did, for their own convenience, after the death of the mother, deliver her to an institution, but the person screamed and screamed, and clung to the railings with her two hands, so that they were forced to take her back. It only goes to show. I am always thankful that, in my case, there are no ties, no encumbrances, not even a mortgage on the home." "Ah," Mrs Jolley had to protest, "I am a mother!" Mrs Flack would pause, pick a burnt currant from a scone, and appear to accuse it terribly. "I cannot claim any such experience," she would declare. Then, after frowning, she would fall to laughing, but feebly-she was an invalid, it had to be remembered-through strips of pale lips. Like cheese-straws at a huffy, Mrs Jolley would be reminded, and immediately regret her disrespect. "I did not mean," she would hasten, dashing at a few crumbs. "That is to say, I did not intend to suggest." And then: "Are you truly quite alone?" "Yes, dear." Mrs Flack would sigh. At that moment something would happen, of such peculiar subtlety that it must have eluded the perception of all but those involved in the experience. The catalyst of sympathy seemed to destroy the envelopes of personality, leaving the two essential beings free to merge and float. Thought must have played little part in any state so passive, so directionless, yet it was difficult not to associate a mental process with silence of such a ruthless and pervasive kind. As they continued sitting, the two women would drench the room with the moth-colours of their one mind. Little sighs would break, scintillating, on the Wilton wall-to-wall. The sound of stomachs, rumbling liquidly, would sluice the already impeccable veneer. Glances rejected one another as obsolete aids to communication. This could have been the perfect communion of souls, if, at the same time, it had not suggested perfect collusion. Mrs Jolley was usually the first to return. Certain images would refurnish the swept chamber of her mind. There was, for instance-she loved it best of all-the pastel blue plastic dressing-table set in Mrs Flack's second bedroom. Mrs Jolley's face would grow quite hard and lined then, as if a pink-and-blue eiderdown had suffered petrifaction. "Alone perhaps, but in a lovely home," she would be heard to murmur. "Alone is not the same," Mrs Flack would usually reply. And smile. It was not all that sad. They both knew it was not sad. They understood that a dénouement might be reached in the drama of their wishes-if they so wished. As tea and contentment increased understanding of each other, as well as confidence in their own powers, it was only to be expected that two ladies of discretion and taste should produce their knives and try them for sharpness on weaker mortals. Seated above the world on springs and _petty point__, they could lift the lids and look right into the boxes in which moiled other men, crack open craniums as if they had been boiled eggs, read letters before they had been written, scent secrets that would become a source of fear to those concerned. Eventually the ladies would begin. Their methods would be steel, though their antiphon was always bronze. "Take doctors, for instance," Mrs Flack might say. "Doctors are only human beings." "You are telling me!" it was Mrs Jolley's duty to interpose. "But must be expected to act different." "And do not always." "Very often do not. Mrs Jolley, I am telling you that this doctor at the corner, in giving me a needle-which I have to get regular, for certain reasons-pulled me quite close. 'Is it necessary?' I asked-myself, of course-'and according to medical etiquette, to press against a lady's form in giving her a simple needle?' His breath was that hot, Mrs Jolley, and the odour, well, I am not one to insinuate, but if it had been _my__ breath, I would of been ashamed to advertise the fact." "Ttst, ttst! The doctors! And to think that a lady, on some occasions, must submit to an examination by such hands!" "Ho, an examination! I have never had one, and do not intend to. No, never!" "There are the lady doctors, of course." "Ah, the lady doctors!" "Do you suppose the lady doctors ever attend to gentlemen?" "I do not know. But they would not attend to me, never. I have my own ideas about the lady doctors." Mrs Jolley would have liked to hear, but etiquette did not permit. "Ah, yes." Mrs Flack would sigh, and lapse. Though each knew she must soon revive. It was but the pause between movements, when initiates clear their throats and frown at some innocent who gives expression to his pleasure. Mrs Jolley had quickly learnt. "Thursday night"-Mrs Flack had, indeed, revived-"Mrs KhaliPs Lurleen was seen three times outside the Methodist church." "In the open?" "On the grass." "Accompanied?" "Ho! Mrs Khalil's Lurleen!" "But with a gentleman?" "With three. And all of them different. Between the pictures' going in and coming out." Then Mrs Jolley had to laugh. "Girls will be girls, eh?" "I should hope not," said Mrs Flack, whose pale lips would become transformed at times into two strips of adhesive tape. "Such girls should be run out. But when the law-well, what can you expect at Sarsaparilla?" "Did you say the law?" "I will not go into that," Mrs Flack replied. "Except that the constable's own braces was found in the paddy's lucerne on the block below the pictures. There is no denying ownership when the name is put in marking-ink." "He could have lost them." "He could have lost them." "Or thrown them away." "Or thrown them away. With the price still visible on the brand-new leather. No, Mrs Jolley, Constable McFaggott is far too close to lose or discard his belongings in the paddy's lucerne, unless the duty that took him there had turned him lighter-headed than usual." Then Mrs Jolley began to hiss like any goose. Her pink-and-blue was changed to purple. "What do you know!" She sat and hissed, and would have known more. But Mrs Flack had folded her arms. She was holding the blanched points of her yellow elbows. "We have not kept to the subject," she said, or accused. For Mrs Flack could sense with only half her instinct that her friend had something which she wished to tell. The occasion was, in fact, the day after Mrs Jolley had approached her mistress on the terrace and been involved in something rather nasty. How nasty, the housekeeper scarcely dared remember. But would touch her wrists from time to time. Certainly, on setting out, so brisk and bright, on the visit to her friend, she had fu