It was funny to be feeling interested enough to bother with that sort of thing; but of course it was because of Robin being here. He deserved a nice pudding after obligingly working through all that pâté for his first course, and nothing to go with it but sliced bread. There weren’t even any tomatoes. No more had been said about the unfortunate topic of Imogen’s first day as a widow, and she was beginning to hope that perhaps Robin was already bored with the subject, even though it concerned himself. The past and its tedious crop of troubles was something he’d always avoided when he could: he was a child of the future, for ever off into next week before yesterday could properly catch up with him. At the moment, he seemed all agog with his plans for moving back home. “Listen, Step. Your old bedroom—yours and Dad’s”—here he gasped on a mouthful of hot apple, and had to snatch a cooling gulp of water from his glass—“I was looking around it this morning while you were down here, and I’ve decided it’ll do.
