I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. It was a sovereign easily earned. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. Most of it had been incomprehensible to her, or comprehensible in a way that checked further curiosity, but the figure of Vivien, hard, capable, successful, and bullying, and ordering about a veritable Teddy in the person of Frank Gardner, appealed to her. He let go of the girl’s arm. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. She has no proof—yet. "But I can guess what it's for.
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