Lydia leaned across from the other corner of the couch.

“Go on-tell me everything! Quick-before someone tears us apart! They will in about half a second. What are you doing? I thought you’d prized yourself loose and gone off on your own.”

“Only to Birleton,” said Phyllida. “I’m secretary of the Convalescent Home there.”

She did not look at Lydia, but Lydia looked at her-a green, determined glance.

“Why didn’t you go right away-into one of the Services or something? I nearly screamed with rage when Irene wrote and said you’d got caught up in this convalescent show and were doing it from here on a push-bike.”

Phyllida looked down into her lap.

“It was too far,” she said listlessly. “Aunt Grace wanted me to try, but I couldn’t keep it up in the black-out-she saw that. So I live at the Home now. I’ve got a week’s leave if I want it, but I expect I shall go back in a day or two. I’d rather be doing something.”

Lydia darted another of those glances.

“Aunt Grace hates it, doesn’t she?”

Phyllida nodded.

Lydia went on.

“How many times a week does she come along and take you out to lunch?”

There was nothing in the words, but the tone was a challenging one. Phyllida looked up, her eyes dark and hurt.

“She misses me-she can’t help that. She’s been very good. Lydia, you know what she’s done for me.”

“Well, what has she done for you? She adopted you, but you don’t suppose she did it to please you, do you? People don’t adopt a baby for the baby’s sake. They do it for exactly the same reason that they get a puppy or a kitten-because they want something to pet. Nobody asks the puppy or the kitten if it wants to be petted-nobody asks the baby.”