We begin, without quite meaning to, to talk about them in the third person while they are still in the room.

Shirley slid gracefully into the armchair beside mine and laid her hand lightly on my forearm, with that practiced warmth of hers.

“Have you eaten anything at all today, Frances?” she asked, her voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper.

“I’m fine, Shirley, really.”

“Did you sleep?

You look so terribly exhausted, my dear.”

“I slept enough to get through the day.”

“You know,” she said, squeezing my arm, “I can speak on your behalf in there, if the stress becomes too much for you.”