Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I
can't
picture
your
sister,'
he
said.
'Is
she
like
you?'
He
laughed
out
of
his
dry
mouth.
'If
she
was
here,
I
could
sit
between
you
on
this
couch.
It's
big
enough.
It's
the
right
size.'
'No,
that
wouldn't
be
possible.
My
sister
is
dead.'
Her
mouth
turned
down
as
if
she
would
weep.
'I'm
sorry.' And
she
laughed.
'I
don't
have
a
sister.
A
friend
told
me
that – about
running
off
with
a
businessman
.
I
never
had
a
sister.'
He
stared
at
her
in
bewilderment.
He
became
angry.
Behind
all
this
assurance,
his
body
knew
that
it
was
old.
He
did
not
understand
this
change
in
her.
She
glittered
with
suppressed
excitement.
It
made
him
angry
that
she
should
remind
him
he
was
old.
'You
didn't
stay
long
on
Saturday.
Too
many
people
for
you?
I like
a
lot
of
people
round
me
on
a
Saturday
night.
You
left
early.
Were
you
fighting
with
Malcolm?'
'I
didn't
really
feel
like
going
at
all.'
She
looked
at
him thoughtfully.
'Malcolm
felt
I
should.'
Malcolm
would.
'A
pretty
wife
like
you –
he'd
want
to
show
you
off,'
he
said,
feeling
better.
Probing
if
she
could
be
hurt,
he
went
on,
'I
was
glad
Malcolm
stayed
on.
No
sense
in
the
night
being
spoiled
for
both
of
you.
When
he'd
said
to
me
you
weren't
coming,
I
told
him,
‘
Don't
worry
–
you
won't
lack
for
company
at
my
house’.'
'Do
you
make
sure
people
have
.
..
company?'
'I'm
a
good
host.
I
like
to
be
sure
everybody
enjoys
himself.'
Faintly,
he
caught
her
perfume;
she
was
close
to
him
with
her
long
neck
and
little
breasts
.
He
had
a
partiality
for
the
kind
of
women
he
described
to
himself
as
lady-like,
and
a
particular
way
of
dealing
with
them
in
bed.
'God,
I'd
forgotten
what
it
was
like,'
that
corrupt
bastard
of
a
policeman
Eddy
Stewart
had
said
to
him
the
other
day,
'to
get
a
young
one
under
you.
It's
a
different
thing
altogether.'
It
had
been
good
to
hear
that
from
a
man
half
his
age; he
had
never
had
to
do
without
young
flesh.
'I
didn't
know
you'd
left
on
Saturday,'
he
said.
'I
was
looking
for
you
and
they
told
me
you'd
gone.
I'd
have
seen
you
home.'
'Why
would
you
do
that?'
'The
good
host
...
'
What
had
he
expected
on
Saturday
night?
Malcolm
Wilson
was
a
familiar
type;
at
first
sight,
the
wife
had
been
too.
With
that
mass of
black
hair,
better
looking
maybe
than
he'd
expected
–
would
have
expected
if
he'd
given
it
more
than
a
casual
thought –
but
not
beautiful,
not
even
really
his
type.
He'd
seen
better;
had
better;
no
lack
of
them.
She
had
argued
with
him,
saying
it
was
wrong
for
any
man
to
be
too
rich.
Even
that,
though,
he
had
encountered
before;
some
women
took
that
line
to
catch
your
interest;
it
was,
after
all,
only
another
kind
of
flattery.
He
had
told
John
Merchant,
'this
lady
here's
been
talking
politics
at
me
.
Trying
to
convert
me.'
Merchant,
smooth
as
ever
(and
slippery
,
a
shadow
of
worry),
had
said,
'That
is
a
process
of
two
steps,
first
you
become
as
a
little
child
and
then
Mrs
Wilson
has
to
find
a
way
for
you
to
pass
through
the
eye
of
a
needle.'
And
he
had
said
‘yes,
I'm
a
kid
at
heart.
And
Irene
and
me
are
going
to
be
such
friends,
I
think
she
might
provide
the
eye
of
a
needle
for
me
yet.'
Not
subtle,
but
with
the
wives
of
ambitious
young
men
you
didn't
have
to
be.
Only,
she
had
gone
early,
disappeared,
and
he
hadn't
been
able
to
get
her
out
of
his
head
since.
She
had
a
trick
of
looking
at
a
man
that
excluded
everyone
else
in
the
world.
'Oh,
I'd
have
seen
you
home
.
Since
your
husband
was
busy.
What
was
it
you
said
a
minute
ago?
‘Rich
one
day,
poor
the
next?’,
your
husband
wants
to
get
on
in
the
world.
He's
ambitious.
Wouldn't
you
like
to
see
your
husband
making
a
bit
of
money?'