In their Wisdom by C.P. Snow

By the middle of November, all Swaffield's guests had returned. Jenny saw Swaffield himself in the charity's office looking like a high-powered and sunburnt frog. He had a few words with her, cordial and casual, saying something which implied that he, like everyone else, was taking a settlement for granted. He had ceased to be specially interested. That was last year's hobby. He didn't invite her to his house so often. At the moment he was organising an appeal for his charity. This was the newest, grandest crusade, and he expected all his entourage, Jenny included, to be as absorbed in it as he was himself.

Eleven o'clock one night in November, almost exactly a year after she had received the first letter from him, Jenny was sitting in her room, having not long returned from Pimlico. The cold had been raw and searching on her walk back from the underground, and she thought that it would be pleasant to tuck up in bed.