“They were, weren’t they?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Are they doing so now?”

“I don’t think so.” She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. “Why?”

“I wanted to be sure whether you were being watched or I was being followed. Now I think I know.”

She said: “Are the police following you?”

He looked startled and then laughed.

“No. They don’t waste their time.”

It was nonsensical to think that he was like Jim. He was half a head taller, his hair so dark that it looked nearly black. Jim’s face was rugged and plain, made attractive by his eyes; this man was handsome; and yet—something about him reminded her vividly of Jim. Her glance strayed to the photograph and he didn’t look round but said:

“Is it a good likeness?”

“Yes, it is. But what do you want?” Her voice sharpened. “I’m busy, Mr—”

“Rollison,” he reminded her. “Why were you downstairs just now?”

She felt inclined to ask him what business it was of his but didn’t. She walked to a chair and sat down, smoothing the skirt of the long, green smock which she always wore when working. She was suddenly conscious of being untidy. Jim always said he preferred her fair, curly hair that way; he thought a conventional set spoiled it. She hadn’t made up that day because she hadn’t been out of doors; she must look dreadful. Her fingers strayed to her hair.

“Don’t bother,” said Rollison and his eyes sparkled, like Jim’s when he had first called her “Punch.”

“Why did you go downstairs? Please tell me.”

She was tempted to say “For a breath of air” but she didn’t; yet she couldn’t think how to tell him why without sounding foolish and perhaps giving something of importance away.

That letter was important. So she said:

“I thought I heard the postman.”