The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym

boring, to see if there was anything worth buying.
    One afternoon he had called for Phoebe to take her to a sale and they were going into a house to view the contents.
    ‘It seems so awful,’ she said, ‘all these people tramping through the hall with their muddy feet.’
    James looked at her in surprise. It was the sort of remark Leonora might have made, with her fastidiousness and feeling for atmosphere. He had always imagined from the untidiness, almost squalor, of her cottage that Phoebe was incapable of noticing muddy footmarks on tiled floors. It gave him an uneasy feeling, as if the two women in his life were merging together in some curious way.
    He explained to Phoebe that the house had belonged to an old lady, now dead, so that there could be nothing personal about it.
    ‘All the same, a relative might be lurking,’ she said. ‘You never know.’
    James led her off to look at some china – there were good pieces of Coalport and Worcester and something that might have been Dresden, but she preferred a crude pair of Staffordshire dogs.
    James was examining a figurine when a man and woman came up and greeted him.
    ‘Hallo, James, what are you after?’ asked the man.
    ‘Oh, my uncle thought there might be something,’ James mumbled.
    ‘But you’re not letting on what it is,’ said the woman, in a light brittle voice.
    ‘Those flowered bedroom sets might be worth going for,’ said the man, indicating a ewer, basin and chamber pot patterned with purple irises.
    James looked round furtively. Phoebe was some distance away, as if she had removed herself purposely. Perhaps it would not be necessary to introduce her. James hoped not, for she was – as so often – looking somewhat unworthy of him in a very short cotton dress and sandals. The couple – Richard and Joan Murray – were friends of Leonora’s and sold Victoriana at their shop in the King’s Road, hence, perhaps, Richard’s affectation of interest in the bedroom china. James was glad to learn that they had only dropped in to have a look and did not intend staying for the sale.
    Phoebe had been pretending to examine some bundles of old books as she watched James talking. Jealousy flared up in her as she realised how little she knew of his world.
    ‘Anything you like there?’ said James awkwardly, as he came back to her.
    ‘I always feel I’d like to collect old books,’ said Phoebe, ‘but then when I look inside them I’m repelled.’
    James wondered if perhaps there was a little flower book he could get for Leonora but there was no time to examine them for the sale was starting. The auctioneer mounted the rostrum and with evident enjoyment began to play his role.
    The larger things, garden effects and most of the furniture, had already been sold in the morning and now the more interesting smaller lots came up, glass and china, books and other oddments. James began bidding for a Coalport basket of flowers but there were two dealers against him and he became discouraged. Eventually a set of plates was knocked down to him but the comparative lack of opposition made him nervous of his uncle’s comments in case there should be something ‘not quite right’ about them.
    ‘Shall we go now?’ he whispered to Phoebe. ‘We can find somewhere to have tea.’
    In the village a Trust House stood back from the wide main street, but for some obscure reason James did not suggest going into it. And yet the reason was not so obscure, for it seemed the kind of place where the Murrays might have stopped and he did not wish to risk another encounter. Fortunately Phoebe did not suggest it either and it was not until they had reached the next small town that she exclaimed, ‘This might do – if you can park here.’
    ‘You mean the Leopard Dining Rooms?’ asked James doubtfully.
    ‘Yes, it looks the kind of place where you might get a strong cup of tea to restore you after all that bidding.’
    ‘All right, then – there doesn’t seem to be