Another long silence. With all her willpower she insisted that he should soften. But he said nothing, merely breathed in and out, into the receiver.
'Stanley, it was only a joke, you aren't really angry, are you, Stanley?' The tears sounded in her voice now, and she judged it better that they should.
He said, after hesitation: Well, Maureen, I just didn't like it, I don't like that kind of thing, that's all.' She allowed herself to go on crying, and after a while he said, forgiving her in a voice that was condescending and irritated: 'Well, all right, all right, there's no point in crying, is there?'
He was annoyed with himself for giving in, she knew that, because she would have been. He had given her up, thrown her over, during the last couple of hours: he was pleased, really, that something from outside had forced him to give her up. Now he could be free for the something better that would turn up — someone who would not strike terror into him by an extraordinary performance like this afternoon's.
'Let's go off to the pictures, Stan…'
Even now, he hesitated. Then he said, quick and reluctant: Til meet you at Leicester Square, outside the Odeon, at seven o'clock.' He put down the receiver.
Usually he came to pick her up in the car from the corner of the street.
She stood smiling, the tears running down her face. She knew she was crying because of the loss of Tony, who had let her down. She walked back to her house to make up again, thinking that she was in Stanley's power now: there was no balance between them, the advantage was all his.
