A  chance  meeting  with  Molly  emphasised  her
isolation,  like  the  flash  of  lightning  wliich  leaves  the
night  darker.  She  was  standing  on  the  steps  of  the
Sandringham  Tea  House  in  Bond  Street,  looking  into
the  side  window  of  the  photographer  who  runs  a
print  shop  on  the  ground  floor.  Some  sprawling
Boucher  beauties  in  delicate  gold  frames  fascinated
her.  She  delighted  in  the  semi-crude,  semi-sophisti-
cated atmosphere,  tlie  rotundity  of  the  well-fed  bodies,
their  ribald  rosy  flesh.  As  she  was  wondering  whether
they  would  not  do  for  the  stairs  the  door  opened
suddenly  and  a  plump  little  woman  almost  rushed


A  BED  OF  ROSES  307

into  her  arms.  The  little  woman  apologised,  giving
her  a  quick  look.  Then  the  two  looked  at  one
another  again.
'  Victoria ! '  cried  Molly,  for  it  was  she,  with  her
wide  open  blue  eyes,  small  nose,  fair  frizzy  hair.
A  thrill  of  joy  and  fear  ran  through  Victoria.  She
felt  her  personality  criddle  up  like  a  scorched  moth,
then  expand  like  a  flower  unde^  gentle  dew.  She
was  found  out ;  the  terrible  female  instinct  was  going
to  detect  her,  then  to  proclaim,  her  guilt.  However,
bravely  enough,  she  braced  herself  up  and  held  out
her  hand.
'  Oh,  Vic,  why  haven't  you  written  to  me  for,  let
me  see,  tliree  years,  isn't  it  ?  '

'I've  been  away,  abroad,'  said  Victoria  slowly.  She
seemed  to  float  in  another  world.  Molly  was  talking
vigorously ;  Victoria's  brain,  feverishly  active,  was
making  up  the  story  which  would  have  to  be  told
when  Molly's  cheerful  egotism  had  had  its  way.
