Jane and Prudence

by Barbara Pym

‘Would you like whisky?’ Fabian’s eyes lighted up and he fetched another glass. ‘Somehow I didn’t imagine you as liking it.’ ‘What did you imagine that I liked?’ ‘I don’t know. I suppose I never thought.’ ‘You mean you never thought of me as a human being at all? As a person who could like anything?’ ‘Well, I don’t know…but you seem different to-night.’ Fabian looked at her, a little puzzled, appraising her. ‘Your dress is becoming.’ ‘Yes, I think it is, and I’m glad you think so.’ ‘Constance had a dress rather like that once. Velvet, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes—I think I remember it.’ But fancy him remembering, she thought. It was a little unnerving the way men sometimes did—not that she feared he would recognise the dress as being the same one altered to fit her; it was just that an unsuspected depth had been revealed in him, and she realised that she might not know him quite so well as she had imagined she did. ‘I think Constance would like to think of us sitting here together,’ said Fabian. ‘She was always very fond of you. You were very good to her.’ ‘Was I?’ said Jessie in a rather brisk tone. ‘I suppose I was better to her than you were. That wouldn’t have been difficult.’