Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy. Then she had a baby and became as old as any really grown-up person, or older, and very dull. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. In a voice husky with suppressed despair, she answered.
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