The air was growing very warm again. The hobbits ran about for a while on the grass. Then they lay basking in the sun with the de­light of those that have been wafted suddenly from bitter winter to a friendly clime, or of people that, after being long ill, wake one day to find that they are unexpectedly well and the day is again full of promise.

There was a loud rumbling sound, as of stones rolling and fal­ling, and suddenly light streamed in. A low door-like opening appeared at the end of the chamber beyond Frodo's feet; and there was Tom's head against the light of the sun rising red behind him.'Come, friend Frodo!' said Tom. 'Let us get out on to the clean grass! You must help me bear them.' Together they carried out Merry, Pippin and Sam. To Frodo's great joy the hobbits stirred, robbed their eyes, and then suddenly sprang up. They looked about in amazement. 'What in the name of wonder?14 began Merry. 'Where did you get to, Frodo?''I thought that I was lost', said Frodo; 'but I don't want to speak of it.' But Tom shook his head, saying: 'Be glad, my merry friends, and let the warm sunlight heat now heart and limb! Cast off these cold rags! Run naked on the grass!'

Riding over the hills, and eating their fill,7 lying a little too long; these things are, perhaps, enough to explain what happened. How­ever, that may be: they woke suddenly from a sleep they had never meant to take. The standing stone was cold, and it cast a long pale shadow. The sun was gleaming through the mist; north, south, and east, the fog was thick, cold and white. The air was silent, heavy and chill.The hobbits8 sprang to their feet in alarm, and ran to the western rim. They found that they were upon an island in the fog. Even as they looked out in dismay towards the setting sun, it sank before their eyes into a white sea, and a cold grey shadow sprang up in the East behind. The fog rolled up to the walls and rose above them, and as it mounted it bent over their heads until it became a roof. They felt as if a trap was closing about them. They packed up as quickly as their chilled fingers would work.Soon they were leading their ponies in single file9 over the rim and down the long northward slope of the hill, down into a foggy sea. As they went down the mist became colder and damper, and their hair hung lank and dripping on their foreheads. When they reached the bottom it was so cold that they halted and got out cloaks and hoods, which soon became bedewed with grey drops. Then, mounting their ponies, they went slowly on again. To prevent their getting separated and wandering in different directions they went in file, with Frodo leading. Suddenly Frodo saw a hopeful sign. On either side ahead a darkness began to loom through the mist; and he guessed that they were at last approaching the gap in the hills. 'Come on! Follow me!' he called back over his shoulder, and he hurried forward. His pony reared, and he fell off. When he looked back he found that he was alone: the others had not fol­lowed him.

After breakfast they made ready to say farewell, as nearly heavy of heart3 as was possible on such a morning; cool, bright, and clean under a washed autumn sky of thin blue. The air came fresh from the North-West.They rode off along a path and looked out from the hill-top over lands under the morning. It was now as clear and far-seen as it had been veiled and misty when they stood upon the knoll in the Forest. They took a deep draught of the air.4Their way wound along the floor of the hollow, and round the green feet of a steep hill into another deeper and broader valley. As they journeyed the sun mounted, and grew hot. Each time they climbed a ridge the breeze seemed to have grown less. When they caught a glimpse of the country westward the distant Forest seemed to be smoking, as if the fallen rain was steaming up again. A shadow now lay round the edge of sight, a dark haze above which the sky was like a blue cap.5 On that side the hills were higher and looked down upon them; and all those hills were crowned with green mounds, and on some were standing stones, pointing upwards like jagged teeth out of green gums. The view was somehow disquieting; so they turned from the sight and went down into the hollow circle. In the midst of it there stood a single stone, standing tall under the sun above, and at this hour casting no shadow. They set their backs6 against the east side of the stone. It was cool, as if the sun had had no power to warm it. There they took food and drink.Riding over the hills, and eating their fill,7 lying a little too long; these things are, perhaps, enough to explain what happened. How­ever, that may be: they woke suddenly from a sleep they had never meant to take. The standing stone was cold, and it cast a long pale shadow. The sun was gleaming through the mist; north, south, and east, the fog was thick, cold and white. The air was silent, heavy and chill.

That night they heard no noises. But either in his dreams or out of them, he could not tell which, Frodo heard a sweet singing run­ning in his mind;1 a song that seemed to come like a pale light be-hind a grey rain-curtain.The vision melted into waking;2 and there was Tom whistling; and the sun was already slanting down the hill and through the open window.

She then handed over a platinum card which bore the name of her father, the Emperor of Japan.

'What other colours do you have this in?' asked Sayako of the assistants, who were packing her suits, loafers, bags and wig.'Just one other colour,' said an assistant (who thought, Jesus, we'll have a drink after work tonight).She hurried to the back of the shop and quickly returned with a toffee-brown version of the sumptuous coat.8'Yes,' said Sayako. 'I take both and, of course, boots to match, size four.' She pointed to the boots worn by the red-haired manne­quin.The pile on the counter grew. Her bodyguard standing inside the shop door shifted impatiently.When the Princess and her purchases had been driven away, the manageress and her assistants screamed and yelled and hugged each other for joy.

She had already ploughed through The Wind in the Willows,10 Alice in Wonderland and most of Jemima Puddleduck11 but she had found these books very difficult, full of talking animals dressed in the clothes of human beings.At Hyde Park Corner the car stopped suddenly, the driver swo­re and Sayako opened her eyes. The bodyguard turned around to face her.'A demonstration,' he said. 'Nothing to fear.'She looked out of the window and saw a long line of mid­dle-aged people crossing the road in front of the car. Many of them were wearing beige anoraks that Sayako, a devoted shopper, identified as coming from Marks and Spencer.12 A few were car­rying signs on sticks.Nobody appeared to take any notice of them, apart from a few impatient motorists.

Sayako sat in the back of the limousine and looked at London and its people. How funny English people are, she thought, with their wobbly faces and big noses and their skin! She laughed behind her hand. So white and pink and red. What bodies they had! So tall. It wasn't necessary to have so much height, was it. Her father was a small man and he was an Emperor.As the car set off on its journey towards Windsor, where she was staying at the newly opened Royal Castle Hotel, Sayako's eyes closed. Shopping was so tiring. She had started at 10.30 in Harrod's lingerie department9 and now it was 6.15 and she had only taken an hour off for lunch. And when she got home she had that puzzling book to read, Three Men in a Boat. She had promised her father she would read at least five pages a day. It would improve her English, he said, and help her to understand the English psyche.She had already ploughed through The Wind in the Willows,10 Alice in Wonderland and most of Jemima Puddleduck11 but she had found these books very difficult, full of talking animals dressed in the clothes of human beings.

'That colour's very good on you,' she said, smiling professio­nally.Sayako said, 'I take it and also I take it in strawberry and navy and primrose.'3The manageress inwardly rejoiced. She would now reach this week's target.4 Her job would be safe for at least another month. God bless the Japanese!Sayako walked over on stockinged feet5 to a display of suede loafers.'And these shoes to match all suits in size four,' she said. Her role model was the fibreglass mannequin6 which lolled convincingly against the shop counter, wearing the same cream suit that Sayako was wearing, the loafers that Sayako had just ordered and a bag that Sayako was about to order in navy, strawberry, cream and primrose. The mannequin's blonde nylon wig shone under the spotlights. Her blue eyes were half closed as though she were encaptured by her own beauty.She is so beautiful, thought Sayako. She took the wig from the mannequin's head and placed it on her own. It fitted perfectly.'And I take this,' she said.

She then handed over a platinum card which bore the name of her father, the Emperor of Japan.As the manageress tapped in the magic numbers from the card,7 Sayako tried on a soft green-coloured suede coat which was also be­ing worn by a red-haired mannequin. The suede coat cost one penny less than a thousand pounds.'What other colours do you have this in?' asked Sayako of the assistants, who were packing her suits, loafers, bags and wig.'Just one other colour,' said an assistant (who thought, Jesus, we'll have a drink after work tonight).She hurried to the back of the shop and quickly returned with a toffee-brown version of the sumptuous coat.8'Yes,' said Sayako. 'I take both and, of course, boots to match, size four.' She pointed to the boots worn by the red-haired manne­quin.The pile on the counter grew. Her bodyguard standing inside the shop door shifted impatiently.When the Princess and her purchases had been driven away, the manageress and her assistants screamed and yelled and hugged each other for joy.

Sayako came out of the changing room in Sloane Street1 wear­ing this season's suit, as featured on the cover of English Vogue.2 Last season's suit lay on the changing room floor in an untidy heap. She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. The manageress, svelte in black, stood behind her.

'After all,' the dark woman resumed her conversation, 'how would it look if she was there when I turned up?' Her friend shook her head slowly from side to side and ended with a quick nod.Should she have got such a small size salad cream? Jean wasn't sure. She was sick of throwing away half-used bottles of stuff.'He came back to you after all,' the blonde woman suddenly said. Jean looked up quickly and immediately felt her cheeks flush. She bent over and began to rearrange the items in her shopping basket.'On his hands and knees,' the dark woman spoke in a trium­phant voice. 'Begged me take him back.'She gritted her teeth together. Should she go and change it for a larger size? Jean looked behind and saw that she was hemmed in by three large trollies. She'd lose her place in the queue. There was something so pitiful about buying small sizes of everything. It was as though everyone knew.

'So what did you say?' Jean heard the blonde woman in front of her talking to her friend.'Well,' the darker woman began, 'I said I'm not having that woman there. I don't see why I should. I mean I'm not being old-fashioned but I don't see why I should have to put up with her at family occasions. After all...'Jean noticed the other woman giving an accompaniment of nods and headshaking at the appropriate parts. They fell into si­lence and the queue moved forward a couple of steps.Jean felt her patience beginning to itch. Looking into her wire basket she counted ten items. That meant she couldn't go through the quick till but simply had to wait behind elephantine shopping loads; giant bottles of coke crammed in beside twenty-pound bags of potatoes and 'special offer' drums of bleach. Somewhere at the bottom, Jean thought, there was always a plastic carton of eggs or a see-through tray of tomatoes which fell casualty to the rest. There was nothing else for it — she'd just have to wait.

Supermarkets are much the same the world over — especially the queues at check-out points. What extraordinary things other people are buying! There are odd snatches of overheard conversa­tion too. But what if one is living alone, 'Shopping for one'?

Jean opened her carrier bag ready for her shopping. She turned to watch the two women as they walked off, the blonde pushing the trolley and the other seemingly carrying on with her story.The cashier was looking expectantly at her and Jean realized that she had totalled up. It was four pounds and eighty-seven pence. She had the right money, it just meant sorting her change out. She had an inclination that the people behind her were becoming impa­tient. She noticed their stack of items all lined and waiting, it seemed, for starters orders. Brown bread and peppers, olive oil and, in the centre, a packet of beefburgers.She gave over her money and picked up her carrier bag. She felt a sense of relief to be away from the mass of people. She felt out of place.

Walking out of the door she wondered what she might have for tea. Possibly chicken, she thought, with salad. Walking towards her car she thought that she should have bought the cookery book after all. She suddenly felt much better in the fresh air. She'd buy it next week. And in future she'd buy a large salad cream. After all, what if people came round unexpectedly?

Jean opened her carrier bag ready for her shopping. She turned to watch the two women as they walked off, the blonde pushing the trolley and the other seemingly carrying on with her story.The cashier was looking expectantly at her and Jean realized that she had totalled up. It was four pounds and eighty-seven pence. She had the right money, it just meant sorting her change out. She had an inclination that the people behind her were becoming impa­tient. She noticed their stack of items all lined and waiting, it seemed, for starters orders. Brown bread and peppers, olive oil and, in the centre, a packet of beefburgers.She gave over her money and picked up her carrier bag. She felt a sense of relief to be away from the mass of people. She felt out of place.

She thought about their shopping trips, before, when they were together. All that rushing round, he pushing the trolley dejectedly, she firing questions at him. Salmon? Toilet rolls? Coffee? Peas? She remembered he only liked the processed kind. It was all such a performance. Standing there holding her wire basket, embarrassed by its very emptiness, was like something out of a soap opera.'Of course, we've had our ups and downs,' the dark woman continued, lazily passing a few items down to her friend.Jean began to load her food on to the conveyor belt. She picked up the cookery book and felt the frustrations of indecision. It was only ninety pence but it seemed to define everything, to pinpoint her aloneness, to prescribe an empty future. She put it back in its place.'So that's why I couldn't have her there you see,' the dark woman was summing up. The friends exchanged knowing expres­sions and the blonde woman got her purse out of a neat leather bag. She peeled off three ten pound notes and handed them to the cashier.

'After all,' the dark woman resumed her conversation, 'how would it look if she was there when I turned up?' Her friend shook her head slowly from side to side and ended with a quick nod.Should she have got such a small size salad cream? Jean wasn't sure. She was sick of throwing away half-used bottles of stuff.'He came back to you after all,' the blonde woman suddenly said. Jean looked up quickly and immediately felt her cheeks flush. She bent over and began to rearrange the items in her shopping basket.'On his hands and knees,' the dark woman spoke in a trium­phant voice. 'Begged me take him back.'She gritted her teeth together. Should she go and change it for a larger size? Jean looked behind and saw that she was hemmed in by three large trollies. She'd lose her place in the queue. There was something so pitiful about buying small sizes of everything. It was as though everyone knew.

'You can always tell a person by their shopping,' was one of her mother's favourite maxims. She looked into her shopping basket: individual fruit pies, small salad cream, yoghurt, tomatoes, cat food and a chicken quarter.The cashier suddenly said, 'Make it out to J. Sainsbury PLC.' She was addressing a man who had been poised and waiting to write out a cheque for a few moments. His wife was loading what looked like a gross offish fingers into a cardboard box marked "Whiskas". It was called a division of labour.Jean looked again at her basket and began to feel the familiar feeling of regret that visited her from time to time. Hemmed in be­tween family-size cartons of cornflakes and giant packets of wash­ing-powder, her individual yoghurt seemed to say it all. She looked up towards a plastic bookstand which stood beside the till. A slim glossy hardback caught her eye. The words Cooking for One screamed out from the front cover. Think of all the oriental foods you can get into, her friend had said. He was so traditional after all. Nodding in agreement with her thoughts Jean found herself eye to eye with the blonde woman, who gave her a blank, hard look and handed her what looked like a black plastic ruler with the words "Next customer please" printed on it in bold letters. She turned back to her friend. Jean put the ruler down on the conveyor belt.

'So what did you say?' Jean heard the blonde woman in front of her talking to her friend.'Well,' the darker woman began, 'I said I'm not having that woman there. I don't see why I should. I mean I'm not being old-fashioned but I don't see why I should have to put up with her at family occasions. After all...'Jean noticed the other woman giving an accompaniment of nods and headshaking at the appropriate parts. They fell into si­lence and the queue moved forward a couple of steps.Jean felt her patience beginning to itch. Looking into her wire basket she counted ten items. That meant she couldn't go through the quick till but simply had to wait behind elephantine shopping loads; giant bottles of coke crammed in beside twenty-pound bags of potatoes and 'special offer' drums of bleach. Somewhere at the bottom, Jean thought, there was always a plastic carton of eggs or a see-through tray of tomatoes which fell casualty to the rest. There was nothing else for it — she'd just have to wait.

'So what did you say?' Jean heard the blonde woman in front of her talking to her friend.'Well,' the darker woman began, 'I said I'm not having that woman there. I don't see why I should. I mean I'm not being old-fashioned but I don't see why I should have to put up with her at family occasions. After all...'Jean noticed the other woman giving an accompaniment of nods and headshaking at the appropriate parts. They fell into si­lence and the queue moved forward a couple of steps.Jean felt her patience beginning to itch. Looking into her wire basket she counted ten items. That meant she couldn't go through the quick till but simply had to wait behind elephantine shopping loads; giant bottles of coke crammed in beside twenty-pound bags of potatoes and 'special offer' drums of bleach. Somewhere at the bottom, Jean thought, there was always a plastic carton of eggs or a see-through tray of tomatoes which fell casualty to the rest. There was nothing else for it — she'd just have to wait.'After all,' the dark woman resumed her conversation, 'how would it look if she was there when I turned up?' Her friend shook her head slowly from side to side and ended with a quick nod.Should she have got such a small size salad cream? Jean wasn't sure. She was sick of throwing away half-used bottles of stuff.'He came back to you after all,' the blonde woman suddenly said. Jean looked up quickly and immediately felt her cheeks flush. She bent over and began to rearrange the items in her shopping basket.'On his hands and knees,' the dark woman spoke in a trium­phant voice. 'Begged me take him back.'She gritted her teeth together. Should she go and change it for a larger size? Jean looked behind and saw that she was hemmed in by three large trollies. She'd lose her place in the queue. There was something so pitiful about buying small sizes of everything. It was as though everyone knew.'You can always tell a person by their shopping,' was one of her mother's favourite maxims. She looked into her shopping basket: individual fruit pies, small salad cream, yoghurt, tomatoes, cat food and a chicken quarter.The cashier suddenly said, 'Make it out to J. Sainsbury PLC.' She was addressing a man who had been poised and waiting to write out a cheque for a few moments. His wife was loading what looked like a gross offish fingers into a cardboard box marked "Whiskas". It was called a division of labour.Jean looked again at her basket and began to feel the familiar feeling of regret that visited her from time to time. Hemmed in be­tween family-size cartons of cornflakes and giant packets of wash­ing-powder, her individual yoghurt seemed to say it all. She looked up towards a plastic bookstand which stood beside the till. A slim glossy hardback caught her eye. The words Cooking for One screamed out from the front cover. Think of all the oriental foods you can get into, her friend had said. He was so traditional after all. Nodding in agreement with her thoughts Jean found herself eye to eye with the blonde woman, who gave her a blank, hard look and handed her what looked like a black plastic ruler with the words "Next customer please" printed on it in bold letters. She turned back to her friend. Jean put the ruler down on the conveyor belt.She thought about their shopping trips, before, when they were together. All that rushing round, he pushing the trolley dejectedly, she firing questions at him. Salmon? Toilet rolls? Coffee? Peas? She remembered he only liked the processed kind. It was all such a performance. Standing there holding her wire basket, embarrassed by its very emptiness, was like something out of a soap opera.'Of course, we've had our ups and downs,' the dark woman continued, lazily passing a few items down to her friend.Jean began to load her food on to the conveyor belt. She picked up the cookery book and felt the frustrations of indecision. It was only ninety pence but it seemed to define everything, to pinpoint her aloneness, to prescribe an empty future. She put it back in its place.'So that's why I couldn't have her there you see,' the dark woman was summing up. The friends exchanged knowing expres­sions and the blonde woman got her purse out of a neat leather bag. She peeled off three ten pound notes and handed them to the cashier.

Supermarkets are much the same the world over — especially the queues at check-out points. What extraordinary things other people are buying! There are odd snatches of overheard conversa­tion too. But what if one is living alone, 'Shopping for one'?

I caught sight of her at the play, and in answer to her beckoning, I went overduring the interval and sat down beside her. She addressed me brightly."Well, it's many years since we first met. Do you remember the first time I sawyou? You asked me to luncheon.

The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for a quiteinadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter,and I knew that she thought me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I hadthe whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket."Follow my example," she said as we shook hand, "and never eat more thanone thing for luncheon.""I'll do better than that," I retorted. "I'll eat nothing for dinner tonight.""Humorist!" she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. "You're quite a humorist!"But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man,but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe theresult with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone

It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in theLatin quarter overlooking a cemetery, and I was earning barely enough money tokeep body and soul together. She had read a book of mine and had written to meabout it. I answered, thanking her, and presently I received from her another lettersaying that she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; shewas spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheonat Foyot's afterwards? Foyot's is a restaurant at which the French senators eat, and itwas so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going there. But I wasflattered, and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman

The Luncheon(Story by W. S. Maugham. Abridged)