she lost her religion. A murmur of voices suddenly surrounded her, and a dialogue was begun between the priest and the congregation. Dora ventured a quick glance sideways at Paul. He knelt with shoulders squared and hands behind him, looking ahead and slightly upward toward the cross at the far end of the room. He had the solemn somewhat noble look which he often wore when he was thinking about his work, but rarely when he was thinking about his wife. Dora wondered whether, happily, his mind was turned to higher things, or whether the religious scene had wrought some change in his feelings. She must remember to ask him, some time when he was in a good temper, whether he believed in God. It was absurd not to know.
Dora suddenly noticed that the nun in the front row had turned round and was looking at her. The nun was fairly young and had a wide ruddy face and strong intent eyes. With the detachment from her devotional surroundings which can best be shown by those whose profession is devotion she scrutinized Dora with unsmiling objectivity for a moment or two. Hen she turned away and whispered something over her shoulder to Mrs Mark who was kneeling just behind her. Mrs Mark also turned round and looked at Dora. Dora felt herself becoming red with alarm. There was a cold familiar inevitability about these looks. With the resignation of one who had never in her life got away with anything Dora watched Mrs Mark get up and tiptoe round the chairs to the back so that she could lean over Dora’s shoulder. Dora twisted round, trying to hear what it was that Mrs Mark was now whispering in her ear.
“
“Sister Ursula says please would you mind covering your head? It’s customary here.”
“I haven’t got anything!” said Dora, ready to burst into tears of embarrassment and vexation.
“A hanky will do,” whispered Mrs Mark, smiling encouragement.
Dora fumbled in her pocket and found a small not very clean handkerchief which she laid on top of her head. Mrs Mark tiptoed away, and the nun looked back once more with amiable satisfaction.
Blushing violently, Dora stared ahead of her. She could see that Paul’s expression had changed, but she dared not look at him. She clutched the back of the chair in front. Hie Latin mumbling went on. Dora became conscious that her skirt was intolerably tight and that a ladder was slowly spreading down one of her stockings. Her feet were hurting and she became suddenly aware that it is extremely uncomfortable to kneel with high-heeled shoes on. She began to look distractedly about the room. She could not see it as a chapel. It was a shabby derelict pitiable drawing-room, harbouring an alien rite, half sinister, half ludicrous. Dora drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. She whipped the idiotic handkerchief from her head and walked quietly to the door and out.
She found herself in a corridor which was unfamiliar, but after trying one or two doors discovered her way back to the stone-flagged hall which opened onto the balcony. She listened for sounds of pursuit but heard none. The hall was spacious, and devoid of decoration: no flowers, no pictures. An open fireplace with a stone carved chimney- piece was swept clean and filled with a heap of brown fir-cones. A green baize notice-board announced times of meals and services, and that there would shortly be a recital of Bach records. Dora hurried on and passed through the tall doorway onto the balcony.
She leaned on the balustrade between the pillars, looking down across the terrace to the lake. The sun had gone, but the western sky to her right was still full of a murky orange glow, glittering with a few feathers of pale cloud, against which a line of trees appeared black and jaggedly clear. She could also see the silhouette of a tower, which must belong to the Abbey. The lake too was glowing very slightly, darkened nearby to blackness, yet retaining here and there upon its surface a skin of almost phosphorescent light. Dora began to descend the steps.
She crossed the terrace and went down the further flight of shallow steps to the path. She paused here because her feet were hurting, took one shoe off, and caressed her foot. Her foot released felt so much better that Dora kicked the other shoe off at once. It fell into some long grass by the side of the steps. Dora tossed its fellow after it and began to run towards the lake. The steps were dry and still warm from the day’s sunshine. The path between the yew trees was of clipped grass and slightly damp already with the dew.
At the edge of the water, fringed by reeds, was a little wooden landing-stage and a small rowing boat. The boat had the attentive tempting look that small rowing boats have. A single oar lay within it. Dora loved boats, though they made her nervous too since she could not swim. She resisted the temptation to get into the boat and glide upon the black glass of the lake. She walked instead a little way along the bank, walking now through the longish grass which tugged stickily at the hem of her skirt. The ground was becoming damp and marshy underfoot. The lake began to bend sharply away to the right and she dimly saw that there was another reach of water on the other side of the house, dividing it from the Abbey. She stood looking out into the darkness across the water and reflected that this was the first moment of quietness in her day. She stood so for a little while listening to the silence.
Suddenly a hand bell rang sharply and clearly from the other side. It rang urgently and vigorously shaken for nearly a minute. Then there was complete silence again. It sounded as if the ringer of the bell must be outside on the edge of the lake, so clearly did the high imperative sound reach Dora’s ears. She turned and began to run quickly back toward the yew tree path. The bell alarmed her. She hurried panting up die slope and as she put her first foot onto the steps she remembered her shoes. She began to forage in the long grass at the side of the steps. The accursed shoes were not to be found. She looked up at the house, looming up dimly over her in the night sky. She stooped again to fumble helplessly in the grass. It was too dark to see anything. A light went on in the house, somewhere in the region of the balcony. Dora gave up her search and began to trail back across the terrace. The stones hurt her feet.
The room where the light was on opened directly onto the balcony, on the right side, through a pair of large glass double doors, which looked as if they had been recently put in, doubtless by the same vandal that had been active below. Dora could see that there were a lot of people gathered inside the lighted room. She did not dare to hesitate, but blundered quickly in, shielding her eyes as she did so.
Someone gripped her arm and led her further into the room. It was Mrs Mark, who said “Poor Dora, I’m so sorry we scared you away. I hope you didn’t get lost out there in the garden?”
“No, but I lost my shoes,” said Dora. Her feet felt very cold and wet now. She moved forward instinctively and sat on the edge of the table. People clustered about her.
“You lost your
“I kicked them off somewhere near the edge of the stone steps, the ones down to the path,” said Dora, “and then I couldn’t find them.” The simplicity of this explanation gave her a curious comfort.
James Tayper Pace came forward and said, “Let a search party be organized! It shall consist of Toby and me, as we know Mrs Greenfield already. Flash lights will be distributed. Meanwhile Mrs Mark can do the introductions.”
“I’ll go too,” said Paul. Dora knew that he was always certain that he could find anything that she had lost. She hoped that he would find her shoes, and not one of the other two. It would put him in a better humour.
Swinging her cold wet legs in their torn and muddy stockings Dora fixed her gaze upon the one remaining familiar face, that of Mrs Mark. A lot of people stood before her, staring at her. She did not dare to look at them; yet everything was so awful now that she was almost past caring what anyone saw or thought.
“You must meet our little group,” said Mrs Mark.“Toby has been introduced already.”
Dora continued to look at Mrs Mark, noticing how her rosy face, devoid of make-up, contrived to be shiny and downy at the same time, and how exceedingly long her plait of fair hair must be when it was unrolled. Mrs Mark wore a blue open-necked shirt and a brown cotton skirt above shaggy bare legs and canvas slippers.
“This is Peter Topglass,” said Mrs Mark. A tall baldish man with spectacles swayed in a bow to Dora.
“And this is Michael Meade, our leader.” A long-nosed man with pale floppy brown hair and blue eyes set too close together smiled a rather tired and anxious smile.
“And this is Mark Strafford, with the beaver.” A large man with bushy hair and a ginger beard and a slightly sarcastic expression came forward to nod to Dora. He smelt strongly of disinfectant.
“I am Mister Mrs Mark, if you see what I mean,” said Mark Strafford.
“And this is Patchway, who is a tower of strength to us in the market-garden.” A dirty-looking man with a decrepit hat on, who looked as if he did not belong and was indifferent to not belonging, gazed morosely at Dora.
“And this is Father Bob Joyce, our Father Confessor.” The cassocked priest who had just come into the room bustled up to shake Dora’s hand. He had a bulging face and eves glittering with conviction. He smiled, revealing a
