'Because I knew I had lost her. She was going to abandon me and stay with you.'

'Did she say that?'

'Yes.' I hoped Gunnar would not ask me if Anne had said she was pregnant. He did not.

'You know-all these years - I've thought that perhaps - that night - she was running away.'

'No, no, no. She thought I was going to drive her home, she kept telling me to stop, she wanted to go back to you - '

Gunnar gave a long shuddering sigh, half turning aside, and we were silent for a moment.

He spoke again, in a tired resonant reflective tone. 'You know - it's a pity you didn't write to me - then - I can see that perhaps I myself made that seem impossible - or that I didn't ask you then - not because of my feelings about you - they were beyond any help - but because of Anne - I have had it in my heart to blame her, almost to hate her - no, that's too much - but there was a gentleness which should somehow have covered the fact of death - which sometimes - only sometimes - failed. I see it differently now. There is so much accident in all things - I suppose in the end all things must be forgiven. I wish we could have had this talk years ago.'

'It might not have worked years ago. If it has worked.'

'Has it done something for you?'

'Yes.'

'Would any form of words help?'

'Don't - '

'But you know - ?'

'Yes.'

'I hope to God all this will last, do you think we can keep it up, do you think we're acting above our station?' Gunnar suddenly began to laugh.

I could not laugh, but I smiled. I was trembling with relief.

'What a perfectly - extraordinary - negotiation - ' Gunnar laughed. It was more like weeping. The big mouth opened and shut convulsively, a little saliva dribbled over the lip, the blue eyes closed as if in anguish.

I felt an awkward almost embarrassed anxiety that all should have gone well for him, that he should be well served and satisfied.

I said, awkwardly enough, 'Is there anything eke you'd like to ask me?'

'No, I don't think so, we seem to have covered the programme! Oh Lord! Hilary, I wish you could get yourself a decent job, you're obviously not getting anywhere in the office.'

'I don't want to get anywhere.'

'But you must, for your own sake, for Crystal's. You have these marvellous linguistic gifts. You must stop wasting yourself.'

'Maybe things will be different now.'

'And Crystal - she's never thought of getting married?'

'No. There was a chap but she broke it off.' Had Crystal known that Gunnar would need her, would need that talk, did she realize how much she had done for him, did she dream that at some time in the future he might need her again?

Gunnar did not pursue the matter. He stood now gulping some whisky, staring into the fire, grimacing, frowning and smiling at the same time, moving his lip as if talking to himself, and as if he were already alone. The interview was at an end and now I must help him to dismiss me.

'I should go,' I said. I wanted to say, but was afraid to say: Shall we meet again?

Gunnar, looking up, seemed suddenly also aware of the unasked question. He drew in his breath, but whether in a sigh of indecision or as a preliminary to an answer I was not to know. He turned to look at the door. Kitty had come in.

Kitty tonight was wearing a canary yellow trouser suit which made her look rich and idle. Her dark hair was particularly Dionysian and glowing; perhaps Biscuit had been brushing it again this evening. Kitty's face was so bright with interest, curiosity, even pleasure, that it was hard to believe that its owner could possibly practise any form of discretion. I was very taken aback, frightened, almost angry. There was something dangerously frivolous in this manifestation, in her evident wish to see these two men together. For a second I imagined that Kitty might actually blurt out our secret, or that she had already done so.

Gunnar, also a little disturbed, said, 'Ah Kitty - you remember Mr Burde - you met him at the Impiatts' place.'

'Hello,' said Kitty, and stretched out her hand.

I took her hand and felt its warmth, its not quite conspiratorial grip. Her face was hidden by a haze. I was now desperately anxious to get out of the house.

'Good evening. Glad to see you again. I'm afraid I have to go.' I made for the door and almost fell down the stairs.

I was relieved to find Gunnar just behind me when I got to the street door. I hoped he had not noticed my confusion.

'Thank you,' I said. 'Thank you.'

'Thank you. Good-bye, Hilary.'

We shook hands. It seemed at that moment like a final farewell. I was not sure if I was glad or not.

I went out through the gardens and across onto the pavement beside the river and began to walk slowly along. The frost was glittering on the paving stones, marked with footprints. So many confused emotions were darting and flashing about, I felt as if my head were wrapped up in a sort of sparkling gauzy veil, positively bundled up with intense feeling. I also felt rather sick.

I had not walked very far when I heard the lipping pad-pad of feet behind me, a woman's feet. I stopped and turned. Biscuit, duffle-coated and hooded. I walked on and she walked beside me, as she had done, as it now seemed, so many times before. I felt that we were weary, Biscuit and I, like two faithful retainers who had grown old together. 'Well, little Biscuit?'

She produced a letter from her pocket and held it towards me. I could see Kitty's writing. Written when? This afternoon, during my talk with Gunnar, in rushed haste after it? My curiosity was detached. It floated away.

'No,' I said. 'Take it back to Lady Kitty.'

Biscuit pocketed the letter. We walked on a bit until we came to the corner of Flood Street. Here we stopped.

'Biscuit dear, you mustn't be angry with me, I'm so shipwrecked. Let's say good-bye here. Let me kiss you.'

I pushed back the hood of the duffle coat. I could not see her face. When I stooped and touched it with mine it was strangely warm and, as I realized the next moment, covered in tears. I held her, not kissing her, just clutching her close against me while her hands gripped onto my overcoat. Then we let go and she turned back and I went on towards the King's Road. I was already bitterly regretting having refused Kitty's letter.

SATURDAY.

THE NEXT day, Saturday, began with four letters. The first, delivered by hand late at night or early in the morning, was from Tommy and ran as follows: Darling, I set the table and waited for you, I was so sure you would come, I made a hot-pot and a treacle pudding, I was so sure you would come. I have cried so much for you. Oh, if you would only give me a child. You know I want to marry you, but I would accept less. I just can't face a life without you and I must have something. Could you not just give me a child and we would live near you and you could see us sometimes? Is this a crazy idea? I must have something from you. And for that there is so little time left. I was so unhappy waiting for you and your not coming, I wanted to die. Please give me something to live for. Will you think of it please, will you think of it?

Your Thomas P.S. I know it's my month-day to see Crystal but I won't come unless you ring me.

The second letter came by post from Laura Impiatt. It ran as follows.

Dearest Hilary, I owe you so many apologies and explanations, but perhaps a simple 'I'm sorry' is best! I have been in a terrible muddle for a long time and am profoundly thankful that it's over. I wonder how much you guessed? Now that I am, I think, out of the wood, I can see everything much more clearly, I can see you much more clearly. Contrary to what you may have believed (you are absurdly humble!) your love has helped and supported me a great deal. I want you to know that. Will you come round and see me? You must be glad that all that is over, and that now we can have a long talk. I am staging an illness, I have actually retired to bed, but will shortly rise anew! Could you come for a drink on Wednesday evening? Freddie will be out at a meeting. Wednesday I know is not one of your booked days. Perhaps it could be my day?! I could give you regular times now. Of course you must not stop your Thursdays, Freddie is not really against you. Only let a little while pass, better not come this Thursday. I'll expect you about six on Wednesday if I don't hear otherwise.

Much love, Laura.

The third letter was from the headmaster of the _______ Grammar School. ( _______ was the town where I was born.) It read Dear Sir, Mr Osmand I have received your letter re Mr Osmand who has some years ago left this school. I write to inform you that your letter addressed to Mr Osmand has been redirected to the school where he taught after leaving here. (The address followed.) I have also taken the liberty of forwarding to the HM there a copy of your letter addressed to me. Mr Osmand has however to the best of my knowledge left that school also. Hopefully they will have a forwarding address.

Yours faithfully, J. P. Bostock.

The fourth letter was from Kitty.

I understood your refusing to accept my letter, but this is another one. I must see you. Could we meet tomorrow Sunday morning at Peter Pan at eleven? I want to ask you something very special. It is most important. It is something for Gunnar not for me. I shall expect you.

K.

Kitty's letter was delivered at about nine o'clock by Biscuit, after I had read the other three. The flat was strangely quiet and it had taken me a little while to realize that Christopher had already departed. I looked into his room. All his silly touching gear had disappeared. He had gone. I felt sad and a little frightened. An era was ending.

There was now nothing to stop me inviting Biscuit in. We sat in the kitchen drinking cups of tea. The servants' hall atmosphere was overwhelming, the air of idle menials gossiping about their betters.

'Tell her I'll come.' My main feeling on receiving her letter was profound relief. My gesture of yesterday had been idle. I would have to see Kitty now even if the heavens fell.

'Yes.'

'Talk to me, Biscuit, tell me this and that. I wonder how much you really know about what's going on? I bet you know plenty.'

Biscuit had shed her duffle coat on the floor. She was wearing narrow serge trousers and a blue padded jacket, a more wintry version of what she had had on when I first saw her. Her long plait was inside the jacket. She looked tired, very little and thin, her face so narrow and frail. I put my hand upon the table as if coaxing a bird and she put her thin hand into it and let me caress her fingers.

'I know some things.'

'Really? Lady Kitty told you?'

'No, not Kitty, Gunnar.'

'Gunnar,' I withdrew my hand hastily. The use of the names shocked almost as much as the information.

'Why not? I have lived in his house for years. Do you think I am invisible?'

To him, yes, I had. 'But - '

'A man, two women. We have been everywhere together.'

'Biscuit, you haven't told him - '

'About you and her? Of course not! I would not hurt him with that.'

'Be careful. If you know some things you must know that there is nothing bad here, it is all to help him. I may see her once again - '

'You and your onces. You be careful too.'

'What do you mean?'

'He wanted to kill you.'

'You know why?'

'Yes.'

'But he doesn't any more, he was kind to me yesterday, we are friends now.'

'Why should you trust them?'

'Them?'

'People can pretend.'

'What on earth?'

'A plot, a trap, it would be a good way to finish you.'

'Biscuit, you're mad.'

'I must go now.'

'Will you kindly explain - '

'Good-bye.'

'You're joking. A rather stupid joke. Good-bye then, until the next letter.'

'I will bring no more letters, I am leaving them.'

'Leaving Lady Kitty?'

'Yes. Be careful. If you hurt him I curse you.'

'I won't hurt him! All right, off you go, I'm sick and tired of riddles.'

She picked up her coat and was out of the door like a flying shadow.

It was Saturday evening and I was with Crystal. (No Thomas of course, since I had not telephoned.) Outside the snow was falling steadily in big woolly flakes. We had had our supper: sausages and fried eggs and beans and tinned peaches and custard.

'Don't go to her,' said Crystal, 'don't go.'

I had spent the day at home alone in a prostrating agony of reflection. I lay on my bed and literally writhed with doubt and anguish.

Biscuit's extraordinary riddles had upset me profoundly and made me feel menaced and polluted as by a ghost. The spirit of revenge is not so easily exorcized. I was disturbed and muddled and could not afterwards remember exactly what Biscuit had said, let alone what she had intended. Had she hinted that the whole thing was an elaborate plot between the spouses to lure me on, and then, in a hideously appropriate situation, punish me? To make me re-enact my crime and to unmask me in it? Would I end up slaughtered by Gunnar at Kitty's feet? Were there women who could use their wiles for such a purpose, find pleasure and excitement in such a drama? Of course there were. Could Kitty conceivably be one of them?