I decided to leave it there, for the time being. Except for his occasional fits of frustration—and what child doesn't have those, one way or another? —Matthew did not seem to me to be unhappy.

The question of what was to be done remained, however. For my part, I favoured further contact with Landis: Matthew clearly felt able to confide in him, and he was undoubtedly interested by Matthew. But, with Mary turned against Landis, such a course would be in direct opposition to her wishes — only a highly critical situation could justify that ... And crisis and urgency were qualities that the Chocky affair appeared to lack ...

So, for the present, as on several previous occasions we attempted to console ourselves with recollections of the way in which Polly had suddenly expelled Piff from the family.

In the meantime, however, I did suggest to Matthew that as Mummy did not seem to care a lot for Chocky, it might not be a bad idea to keep her rather in the background for a bit...

We heard very little of Chocky for about a fortnight after that. Indeed, I began to have hopes that she was leaving us. But they were only slender hopes, and soon to be nipped. *

One evening as I was reaching for the television switch Mary stepped me. 'Just a minute,' she said. She got up and went aci-"ss to her bureau. When she came back she was holding several sheets of paper, the largest about sixteen inches by twelve. She handed them to me without a word, and went back to her chair.

I looked at the papers. Some of the smaller ones were pencil sketches, the larger ones were paintings in watercolour. Rather odd paintings. The first two were landscapes with a few figures. The scenes were undoubtedly local, and vaguely familiar, though I could not positively identify the viewpoints. The first thing that struck me was the figures, they were treated with an individuality of style that was quite constant: cows, and sheep, too, had a rectangular and lean look; human beings appeared as a half-way compromise between the real thing and stickmen, noticeably lacking in bulk and surprisingly angular. But despite that there was life and movement in them.

The drawing was firm and confident, the colouring somewhat sobmre; it gave an impression of being much concerned with subtle shades of green. I know next to nothing of painting, but they gave me a feeling that the sureness of line, and the economy with which effects had been achieved showed considerable accomplishment.

The next two were still-lifes: a vase of flowers, not seen as a botanist would see them, but, nevertheless, recognizably roses; and a bowl of red things, which were undoubtedly strawberries.

Following these came a view through a window. This I was able to recognize. It showed a corner of a school playground, with a number of figures there that were active, but, again, long-legged.

Then there were a couple of portraits. One of a man with a long rather severely-planed face. I —well, I cannot say I recognized it, but there was something about the hairline which seemed to imply that it was intended for myself— though to my mind my eyes do not in the least resemble traffic go-lights. The other portrait was of a woman; not Mary, nor anyone I could identify.

After I had studied the pictures I laid them down on my knees, and looked across at Mary. She simply nodded.

'You understand this kind of thing better than I do. Would you call them good?' I asked.

'I think so. They're odd, but there's life and movement in them, perception, a feeling of confidence ...' She stopped and then added: 'It was accidental. I was clearing his room. They'd fallen behind the chest of drawers...'

'Perhaps one of the children in his class — or his artteacher * ...?' I ventured.

Alary shook her head.

'Those aren't hers. I've seen some of Miss Soames' stuff: her style's a bit on the niggly side. * Besides, the last one is her — not very flattering, either.'

I looked through the pictures once more, reconsidering them. They grew on one, once the first strangeness had worn off. *

'You could put them back there tomorrow, and just say nothing,' I suggested.

Mary smoothed her knitting, and pulled it to get the rows straight.

'I could ... but they'd go on worrying me. I'd rather he told us about them ...'

I looked at the second landscape, and suddenly recognized the scene, knew the exact bend in the river which gave it.

'Darling,' I said. 'I'm afraid you won't like it.'

'I've not liked any of it. I didn't like it even before that friend of yours started talking about "possession". But I'd rather know than be left guessing. After all, it is just possible that someone did give them to him.'

Her expression told me that she meant what she said. I did not object further, but it was with a feeling that the whole thing was now entering upon a new phase that I agreed. I took her hand, and pressed it.

'All right,' I said. 'He'll scarcely be in bed yet.' And I put my head into the hall, and called upstairs. Then I spread the pictures out on the floor.

Matthew arrived in his dressing-gown, pink, tousleheaded, and fresh from the bath. He stopped abruptly at the sight of the pictures. Then his eyes went to Mary's face, uneasily.

'I say, Matthew,' I said, as chattily as I could, 'Mummy happened to come across these when she was clearing your room. They'd slipped down behind the chest of drawers.'

'Oh,' said Matthew. 'That's where they went.'

'They're very interesting, and we think they're rather good. Are they yours?'

Metthew hesitated, then:

'Yes,' he said, a little too defiantly.

'What I mean is,' I explained, 'did you paint them?'

This time his 'yes' had a defensive touch.

'H'm ... They aren't much like your usual style, are they? I should have thought you'd got higher marks for these than you usually do in Art,' I suggested.

Matthew shuffled a little.

'These ones aren't Art. They're private,' he told me.