The heavy front door of the Estate House slammed shut behind diem, and Carrie and Elfrida were left alone, still sitting at the kitchen table, with the remains of lunch, and their coffee. They smiled at each other. Two women of different generations, but old friends, who had not been together, alone, for too long, and now relished their peaceful privacy. Carrie said, “What a perfectly sweet man.” Elfrida, she thought, for all her sixty-two years, looked as vital and energetic as a young girl. Her slenderness became her, the uncompromising blaze of suspect hair, the eccentric clothes, the slash of lipstick, all declaimed a healthy denial of advancing years. Her very presence was like a shot in the arm. “Isn’t he?” she said, with satisfaction. “I’m so pleased they’ve made friends. Lucy was apprehensive. I told her, of course, about his wife and his daughter, and she was afraid that Oscar mightn’t want her about the place, reminding him of Francesca.
