That some secret did exist, Mrs Jolley also was certain, with her instinct for doors through which she might never be admitted. Not that she wanted to be. Oh dear, no, not for a moment. "Sounds a peculiar person to me," she had to comment, when her employer had concluded the story of her illness, or such parts of it as were communicable. Miss Hare laughed. Her face was quite transformed. Mrs Jolley swelled, only just perceptibly. "And what will become of her," she asked, "in that shed, with all those children, and the husband-what about the husband?" Had she put her finger on a sore? "Oh, the husband comes and goes. On several occasions he has hit her, and once he loosened several of her teeth. He has been in prison, you know, for drunkenness. "Oh, yes, the husband!" she was forced to add. And she began to sway her head from side to side, in a manner both troubled and grotesque, which gave her companion considerable satisfaction. "There is so much evil," finally cried the distraught Miss Hare. "One forgets." "I can never forget," Mrs Jolley claimed. "It is always with us, in the daily papers, not to mention the back yard." "I had forgotten," Miss Hare realized, "until _you__ reminded me of it." "But," said Mrs Jolley, doing something dainty with a white of egg, "why doesn't she leave this husband?" "She considers it her duty to stay with him. Besides, she loves him." Miss Hare pronounced with difficulty that amazing word. "One day, on my way past, I shall give her a piece of advice." "You would not dare!" cried Miss Hare, protecting something breakable. "She is a very sensitive woman," she said. "Squeezing the water out of sheets!" retorted Mrs Jolley. Then Miss Hare suspected that her housekeeper might ultimately have everybody at her mercy. "Nobody who is a believer could fail to derive consolation from her faith," Mrs Jolley decided. "Few could fail to believe in Mrs Godbold," Miss Hare followed up. But feebler. Mrs Jolley had experience of words. Mrs Jolley had her family in a phalanx, her three daughters, and her sons-in-law, to say nothing of the incalculable kiddies. "None of all this," said Mrs Jolley at last, "is what I am used to. I have always moved in different circles." Miss Hare believed it, but also feared. "Mrs Flack agrees," said Mrs Jolley, "that I have been faced with things recently which I cannot be expected to understand or accept." "Mrs Flack?" "Mrs Flack is a friend," said Mrs Jolley, and let fall a veil of sugar from her sifter. "A lady," she said, "that I met on the bus. And again, outside the church. The widow," she added, "of a tiler, who fell off the roof while contracted at Barra-nugli, years ago." "I have never heard of Mrs Flack." "Different circumstances," continued Mrs Jolley, with dignity, if not scorn. "Mrs Flack resides in Mildred Street, in a home of her own, with every amenity. Seeing as her husband, the tiler, had the trade connections that he had, they were able to fix things real nice. Oh, and I almost forgot to telclass="underline" Mrs Flack's father was a wealthy store proprietor, who saw to it, naturally, that his daughter was left comfortable." "Naturally," Miss Hare agreed. Expected to evoke for herself the apparition of Mrs Flack, her mind would not venture so far. And there the name rested, unspoken and mysterious. Indeed, Mrs Jolley, too, became a mystery now. She would appear in doorways, or from behind dividing curtains, and cough, but very carefully, at certain times. She carried her eyes downcast. Or she would raise them. And look. And Mrs Jolley's eyes were blue. "I was looking for the ashtrays," Mrs Jolley would explain. "All my girls are smokers, of course. And the trays need emptying." Then she would retire. She was most discreet now, and silent. Again she would appear. "Do you need anything?" Mrs Jolley would ask, or breathe. What can one possibly need? Miss Hare used to wonder. "No," she would have to confess. She would go on sitting in her favourite chair, which was old, but real. "Some people are given to one thing, and some another," Mrs Jolley would say, and finger. "Now, _we__ have the Genoa velvets in all our lounges. But Mrs Flack-the lady I was telling you of-she goes for _petty point__." But Mrs Flack would at once withdraw. "Do you need anything?" Mrs Jolley would repeat. Miss Hare's face fumbled after some acceptable desire. "No," she would have to admit, ashamed. Then, on one occasion, Mrs Jolley announced, "I had a letter." She had followed her employer out to the terrace. It was almost evening. Great cloudy tumbrils were lumbering across the bumpy sky towards a crimson doom. "I did not see your letter," Miss Hare replied. Mrs Jolley scarcely hesitated. "Oh," she said, "it was at the P. O. All my correspondence is always directed to the P. O. A matter of policy, you might say." Miss Hare was observing the progress of a beetle across the mouth of a silted urn. She would have much preferred not to be disturbed. "It was a letter from Mrs Apps," Mrs Jolley pursued. "That is Merle, the eldest. Merle has a particular weakness for her mum, perhaps because she was delicate as a kiddy. But struck lucky later on. With a hubby who denies her nothing-within reason, of course, and the demands of his career. Mr Apps-his long service will soon be due-is an executive official at the Customs. I will not say well-thought-of. Indispensable is nearer the mark. So it is not uncommon for Merle to hobnob with the high-ups of the Service, and entertain them to a buffy at her home. _Croaky de poison__. Chipperlarters. All that. With perhaps a substantial dish of, say, chicken à la king. I never believe in blowing my own horn, but Merle does things that lovely. Yes. Her buffy has been written up, not once but several times." Miss Hare observed her beetle. "Now Merle writes," the housekeeper continued, "and does not, well, exactly _say__, because Merle is never one to _say__, but lets it be understood she is not at all satisfied with the steps her mum has taken to lead an independent life, since their father passed on, like that, so tragically." Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare. "Of course I did not tell her half. Because Merle would have created. But you will realize the position it has put me in. Seeing as I am a person that always sympathizes with the misfortunes of others." Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare. The wind had started up, and the housekeeper did not like it in the open. She was one who would walk very quickly along a road, and hope to reach the shops. "Everybody is unfortunate, if you can recognize it," said Miss Hare, helping her beetle. "But there are usually compensations for misfortune." Mrs Jolley drew in her breath. She hated it on the horrid terrace, the wind tweaking her hair-net, and the smell of night threatening her. "At a nominal wage," she protested, "it is hard lines if a lady should have to look for compensations." "How people can talk!" Miss Hare exclaimed, not without admiration. "My parents would be at it by the hour. But one could sit quite comfortably inside their words. In a kind of tent. Do you know? When it rains." "Your parents, poor souls!" Mrs Jolley could not resist. So that Miss Hare was cut. She removed her finger from the beetle, which ultimately she could not assist. "Why must you keep harping on my parents?" The marbled sky was heartrending, if also adamant, its layers of mauve and rose veined by now with black and indigo. The moon was the pale fossil of a moth. "Who brought them up?" Mrs Jolley laughed against the rather nasty wind. "I have always had consideration for Somebody's feelings, particularly since Somebody witnessed such a very peculiar death." Miss Hare was almost turned to stone, amongst the neglected urns and the Diana-_Scuola Canova__-whose hand had been broken off at the wrist. "Will you, please, leave me?" she asked. "That is what I have been trying to convey," insisted Mrs Jolley. "No person can be put upon indefinitely. And I have been invited," she said, "or it has been suggested by a friend, who suffers from indifferent health, that I should keep her company." Miss Hare was gulping like a brown frog. It was not the eventuality that appalled, so much as the method of disclosure, and the shock. "Then, if you really intend," she mumbled. Mrs Jolley could have devoured one whom she suspected of a weakness. "It is not as if you wasn't independent before," she reminded, and smiled. "We could hardly call ourselves Australians-could we? — if we was not independent. There is none of my girls as is not able, at a pinch, to mend a fuse, paint the home, or tackle jobs of carpentry." Mrs Jolley had assumed that monumental stance of somebody with whom it is impossible to argue. "Perhaps," Miss Hare answered. When all was said, she would remain a sandy little girl. Her smiles would weave like shallow water over pebbles. "So," sighed Mrs Jolley, "there it is. I cannot say any more. Nothing stands still, and we must go along too." Then she drew in her breath, as if she were restraining wind. Or else she could suddenly have been afraid. "Do let go of me, please!" she said, rather loud, but still controlled. "Miss Hare!" she said, louder. "You are hurting my wrists!" But Miss Hare, for her part, could not resist the black gusts of darkness that were bearing down on her, and if she did not know the satisfaction of recognizing Mrs Jolley's fear, it was because she became engulfed in her own; she was removed from herself, at least temporarily, at that point. As for Mrs Jolley, night had closed on her like a vise, leaving her just freedom enough to wrestle with the serpents of her conscience. So the two women were thrashing it out on the gritty terrace. The wind, or something, had torn the housekeeper's hair-net, and she hissed, or cried, from between her phosphorescent teeth.