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Gunfire died away: the enemy did not come; preparations for his reception languished, first misted over by Alice's vivid but diminishing anxiety, finally swallowed by the background of her boring life with Roland, the routine of the farm. Alice noticed with surprise that she was bored when something made her tax Roland with lack of interest. He flushed guiltily – itself a novel change in the level uniformity of the ardours of their passion. He tried to restore the familiarity of love. Alice was not reassured as his protestations and denials formed into a hard, smooth coat of love which fitted like a strait-jacket.
She purred furiously till her rage turned to clanging heartbeats beating the murder out of her. ‘I will be good … no hate or bitterness in my … write it out, fifty times …’
There was a disturbance in the yard, hurried footsteps and a woman's voice crying furiously, ‘Let go! Let me go!’ A man swore in pain. ‘You bloody bitch …!’ And then steps running up to the room where Alice and Roland waited in sudden fear to see – what next?
It was typical of these times: an eternity of boredom displaced without warning by flaming dread. Alice and Roland waited with ashen faces and staring, questioning eyes. The pounding footsteps fused with their pounding hearts – battered from without and within. The door crashed open and a woman half fell into the room.
She was gorgeously dressed in a quilted, crimson gown. With open mouth she looked from Alice to Roland, stammering with fear. ‘Oh, Miss! I'm sorry, Miss. I couldn't help it, Miss! You sent me away before! I couldn't … the last train couldn't go. They stopped it and turned us off.’