"All's well that ends well," said Arnold. "I'm sorry to have involved you both." No doubt he was sorry. If he had not lost his nerve he could have kept the whole thing secret, he was probably thinking now. However, as Rachel had conjectured, he seemed to have largely recovered his composure. He was sitting very upright, holding his glass carefully in both hands, one leg crossed over the other and a small well-shod foot rhythmically signalling. Everything about Arnold was neat and small, though he was of average height. He had a small well-shaped head, small ears, a small mouth such as a girl would have liked to own, and ridiculously small feet. He had put on his steel-rimmed glasses and his face had resumed its healthy greasy look. His pointed nose probed the atmosphere, his eyes glinted towards me, diffidently. He had combed his pale lank hair.

Obviously the next thing was to get rid of Francis. Francis had put his macintosh on again, probably out of some instinctive self-defence rather than because of any intention of departing. He was helping himself to more whisky. He had pushed his frizzy hair back behind his ears, and his close dark bear's eyes peered inquisitively at me, at Arnold. He looked pleased with himself. Perhaps the unexpected renewal of his priestly function, however momentary and unimpressive, had cheered him, given him a little whiff of power. His eager interested look and the sudden sickening memory of his news made me feel intense annoyance. I now regretted having let him accompany me. His having met Arnold could have some undesirable consequence. On principle I usually avoid introducing my friends and acquaintances to each other. It is not that one fears treachery, though of course one does. What human fear is deeper? But endless little unnecessary troubles usually result from such introductions. And Francis, though a wreck and not to be accounted a serious danger, had always, with the natural talent for it of a failed person, been a trouble-maker. His gratuitous mission this very day had been typical. I wanted him out of the house. I also wanted to talk to Arnold, who was clearly in a talkative, excited, almost euphoric mood. Perhaps I had been wrong to speak of composure. It was more a matter of shock plus whisky.

Without sitting down I said to Francis. "We needn't keep you now. Thanks for coming."

"Don't go, Doctor," said Arnold. Perhaps he wanted male support, to surround himself with men. Perhaps they had been having an interesting conversation. Arnold had something of the coarseness and the camaraderie of the homme moyen sensuel. This too could be a help in marriage. Arnold's glass struck his lower teeth with a slight clack. He had probably drunk a good deal since coming downstairs.

"Good-bye," I said meaningfully to Francis.

"I'm so grateful, Doctor," said Arnold. "Do I owe you anything?"

"You owe him nothing," I said.

Francis looked wistful. He had risen, recognizing the futility of resistance, taking his orders from me.

"About what we were talking about before," he said to me conspiratorially at the door. "When you see Christian--"I won't."

"Anyway, here's my address."

"I won't need it." I led him through the hall. "Goodbye. Thanks." I shut the front door behind him and returned to Arnold. We sat, both of us crouching a little over the electric fire. I felt very limp and, in a blank sort of way, frightened.

"You are very firm with your friends," said Arnold.

"He's not a friend."

"I thought you said--"Oh never mind him. Do you really think Rachel will come down to supper?"

"Yes, I do. This is just a matter of experience. She never sulks for long after a thing like this, not if I lose my temper. She's kind to me then. It's if I keep quiet she goes on and on. Not that we make a habit of scraps like this. But we sometimes both explode and then it's all over at once, clears the air. We're very close to each other. These rows aren't real warfare, they're an aspect of love. This may be hard for an outsider to understand--"I suppose usually there aren't outsiders around."

"Quite. You do believe me, don't you, Bradley? It's rather important that you should. I'm not just defending myself. It's true. We both shout but there's no real danger. Understand?"

"Yes," I said, reserving my judgment.

"Did she say anything about me?"

Anyway, what did it mean?

"She's such a good person, very forgiving, very kind. I'll leave her be for the moment. She'll soon pity me and come down. We never let the sun go down upon our wrath. It's fake wrath anyway. You do understand, Bradley?"

"Yes."

"Look," said Arnold, "my hand's trembling. Look at the glass shaking about. It's quite involuntary. Isn't that odd?"

"You'd better get your own doctor tomorrow."

"Oh, I think I shall be better tomorrow."

"To see her, you fool."

"Yes, yes, of course. But she's very resilient. Anyway she's not badly hurt, I got that quite clear. Oh thank God, thank God, thank God---I just misunderstood that scene with the poker. She was shamming, furious. I don't blame her. We're a couple of fools. She really isn't badly hurt, Bradley. The doctor explained. Christ, do you think I'm some sort of monster?"

"No. Do you mind if I tidy things up a bit?" I set a stool upright. I began to stoop around the room with a wastepaper basket, picking up broken glass and china, mementoes of the battle which now seemed so unreal, impossible. One casualty was a red-eyed china rabbit which I knew Rachel was very fond of. Who had broken that? Probably Rachel.

"Rachel and I are very happily married," said Arnold.

"Yes, I'm sure." He was probably right. They probably were. I sat down again, feeling very tired.

"Of course we argue sometimes. Marriage is a long journey at close quarters. Of course nerves get frayed. Every married person is a Jekyll and Hyde, they've got to be. You mayn't think it, but Rachel is a bit of a nagger. Her voice goes on and on and on sometimes. At least it has lately, I suppose it's her age. You wouldn't believe it, but she can go on for an hour saying the same thing over and over again."

"Women like to talk."

"This isn't talk. I mean that she repeats the same sentence over and over and over again."

"You mean literally? She ought to see a psychiatrist."

"What sort of sentence does she repeat, saying what? Give me an example."

"No. You wouldn't understand. It would sound awful when it isn't. She gets an idea and runs it for a while. For instance that I discuss her. with other women."

"You're not sort of--Are you?"

"You mean running around? No, of course not. Christ, I'm a model husband. Rachel knows that perfectly well. I always tell her the truth, she knows I don't have affairs. Well, I have had, but I told her, and that was ages ago. Why shouldn't I talk to other women, we're not Victorians! I have to have friends and talk freely to them, I can't give way on a point like that. And where it would make one mad with resentment one mustn't give way, one oughtn't to. Anyway she doesn't really expect it, it's all dotty. Why shouldn't I talk about her sometimes? It would look jolly funny if she was a banned subject. It's always open kind sympathetic talk, I wouldn't say anything I wouldn't want her to hear. I don't mind her talking about me to her friends. Christ, one isn't sacred, and of course she does talk, she has lots of friends, she's not cloistered. She says she's wasted her talents, but that's not true, there are hundreds of kinds of self-expression, one doesn't have to be a bloody artist. She's intelligent, she could have been a secretary or something if she'd wanted to, but does she really want that? Of course not. It's a sort of empty complaint, and she knows it, it's just a kind of momentary annoyance with me. She does all sorts of interesting things, she's on endless committees, involved in campaigns for this and that, she knows all sorts of people, Members of Parliament, far grander people than me! She's not a frustrated person--"It's just a mood," I said. "Women have moods." The agonized voice I had heard upstairs already seemed remote. Then it occurred to me that I was doing just what she had predicted.

There was the sound of a lavatory flushing upstairs. Arnold moved to rise, then fell back. He said, "There you are. She'll be down. I won't bother her just yet. I'm sorry I troubled you, Bradley, there was no reason, I just stupidly panicked."

I thought, He will soon feel resentment against me because of this. I said, "Naturally I won't mention this business to anyone."

Arnold, looking a little annoyed, said, "Do what you like. I'm not asking you to be discreet. More sherry? Why did you chuck that doctor chap out so, if I may say so, churlishly?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"What was all that he was saying to you just at the end?"

"Oh, nothing."

"He said something about 'Christian.' Was he talking about your ex-wife? Wasn't that her name? Pity I never met her, but you got rid of her so early on."

"I'd better go. Rachel will be coming down for the reconciliation scene."

"Not for another hour, I reckon."

"I suppose that's one of those skilled inductions you married people live by. All the same--"Don't be evasive, Bradley. Was he talking about your once wife?"

"Yes. He's her brother."

"Really? Your ex-wife's brother. How fascinating. I wish I'd known, I'd have looked him over more carefully. Are you being reconciled or something?"

"No."

"Oh come on, something's happening."

"You love happenings, don't you. She's coming back to London. She's a widow now. It's nothing to do with me."

"Why not? Aren't you going to see her?"

"Why the hell should I? I don't like her."

"You are picturesque, Bradley. And so dignified! After all these years. I'd be dying with curiosity. I must say, I'd love to meet your ex-wife. I can never quite see you as a married man."

"Me neither."

"What do you mean? You said he was."

"He was struck off the register."

"Ex-wife, ex-doctor. How interesting. What was he struck off for?"

"I don't know. Something to do with drugs."

"But what to do with drugs? What did he do exactly?"

"I don't know!" I said, beginning to be exasperated in a familiar way. "I'm not interested. I never liked him. He's some sort of scoundrel. By the way, I hope to God you didn't talk to him about what really happened tonight. I just told him there'd been an accident."

"Well, what really happened wasn't very--I dare say he guessed--"I hope not! He's capable of blackmailing you."

"That man? Oh no!"

"Anyway, he disappeared out of my life long ago, thank God."

"But now he's back. Bradley, you are censorious, you know."

"I disapprove of some things, oddly enough."

"Disapproving of things is all right. But you mustn't disapprove of people. It cuts you off."

"I want to be cut off from people like Marloe. Being a real person oneself is a matter of setting up limits and drawing lines and saying no. I don't want to be a nebulous bit of ectoplasm straying around in other people's lives. That sort of vague sympathy with everybody precludes any real understanding of anybody."

"The sympathy needn't be vague--"And it precludes any real loyalty to anybody."

"One must know the details, justice, after all--"

"I detest chatter and gossip. One must hold one's tongue. Even sometimes just not think about people. Real thoughts come out of silence."

"Bradley, not that, please. Listen! I was saying justice demands details. You say you aren't interested in why he was struck off the register. You ought to be! You say he's some sort of scoundrel. I'd like to be told what sort. You obviously don't know."

Making a strong effort to check my exasperation I said, "I was glad to get rid of my wife and he went too. Can't you understand that? It seems simple enough to me."

"I rather liked him. I asked him to come and see us."

"Oh Christ!"

"I don't think curiosity is a kind of charity. I think it's a kind of malice."

"That's what makes a writer, knowing the details."

"It may make your kind of writer. It doesn't make mine."

"Here we go again," said Arnold.

"Why pile up a jumble of 'details'? When you start really imagining something you have to forget the details anyhow, they just get in the way. Art isn't the reproduction of oddments out of life."

"I never said it was!" said Arnold. "I don't draw direct from life."

"Your wife thinks you do."

"Oh that. Oh God."

"Inquisitive chatter and cataloguing of things one's spotted isn't art."

"Of course it isn't--"Vague romantic myth isn't art either. Art is imagination. Imagination changes, fuses. Without imagination you have stupid details on one side and empty dreams on the other."

"Bradley, I know you--"Art isn't chat plus fantasy. Art comes out of endless restraint and silence."

"If the silence is endless there isn't any art! It's people without creative gifts who say that more means worse!"

"One should only complete something when one feels one's bloody privileged to have it at all. Those who only do what's easy will never be rewarded by--"Nonsense. I write whether I feel like it or not. I complete things whether I think they're perfect or not. Anything else is hypocrisy. I have no muse. That's what being a professional writer is."

"Then thank God I'm not one."

"You're such an agonizer, Bradley. You romanticize art. You're a masochist about it, you want to suffer, you want to feel that your inability to create is continuously significant."

"It is continuously significant."

"Oh come, be humbler, let cheerfulness break in! I can't think why you worry so. Thinking of yourself as a 'writer' is part of your trouble. Why not just think of yourself as someone who very occasionally writes something, who may in the future write something? Why make a life drama out of it?"

"I don't think of myself as a writer, not like that. I know you do. You're all 'writer.' I don't see myself in that way. I think of myself as an artist, that is, as a dedicated person. And of course it's a life drama. Are you suggesting that I'm some sort of amateur?"

"No, no--"Because if you are--"Bradley, please let's not have this silly old quarrel again, I don't feel strong enough."

"All right. Sorry. Sorry."

"You get so worked up and flowery! You sound as if you were quoting something all the time!"

I felt a sizzling warmth in my coat pocket wherein I had thrust the folded manuscript of my review of Arnold's novel. Arnold Baffin's work was a congeries of amusing anecdotes loosely garbled into "racy stories" with the help of half-baked unmeditated symbolism. The dark powers of imagination were conspicuous by their absence. Arnold Baffin wrote too much, too fast. Arnold Baffin was really just a talented journalist.

"Let's start up our Sundays again," said Arnold. "I so much enjoyed our talks. We must just keep out of those old rat runs. We're both like mechanical toys when certain subjects are mentioned, we go whirring off. Come to lunch next Sunday, why not?"

"I doubt if Rachel will want to see me next Sunday."