I had so much loved and trusted Julian's instinct for frankness that I had not even had the sense to advise her to tone it all down a bit. I had not even, fool that I was, really foreseen how awful the thing would look to her parents. I had been far too absorbed in the sacredness of my own feelings to make the cold effort to be objective here. And what an idiot I had been, to go farther back, not to tone it all down myself! I could have broken it to her slowly, moved in on her gradually, wooed her quietly, hinted, insinuated, whispered. There could have been chaste and then less chaste kisses. Why did I have to sick it up all at once like that and put her in a frenzy? But of course this slow-motion idea was only tolerable in retrospect in the light of the knowledge that I now had of her love for me. If I had started to tell her anything at all I could not have stopped myself from telling her everything straightaway. The anxiety would have been too terrible. I did not now meditate upon, or even entertain, the thought that I might have been and ought to have been silent. I did not reject this idea. Only it seemed to belong to some very remote period of the past. For better or worse, that was no longer in question, and guilt about it did not form part of my distress.

I woke to the sound of dustbin lids being clattered by Greeks at the end of the court. I rose quickly into a world which had become, even since last night, much more frightful. Last night there had been horrors, but there had been a sense of drama, a feeling of obstacles to be overcome, and beyond it all the uplifting certainty of her love. Today I felt crazy with doubt and fear. She was only a young girl after all. Could she, against such fierce parental opposition, hold to her faith and keep her vision clear? And if they had lied to me about her was it not likely that they had lied to her about me? They would tell her that I had said I would give her up. And I had said it. Would she understand? Would she be strong enough to go on believing in me? How strong was she? How little in fact I knew her. Was it really all in my mind? And supposing they took her away? Supposing I really could not find her? Surely she would write to me. But supposing she did not? Perhaps, although she did love me, she had decided that the whole thing was a mistake? That would, after all, be a thoroughly rational decision.

The telephone rang but it was only Francis asking me to come and see Priscilla. I said I would come later. I asked to talk to her but she would not come to the telephone. About ten Christian rang and I put the receiver back at once. I rang the Ealing number but got "number unobtainable" again. Arnold must have somehow put the telephone out of action during that period of panic in the afternoon. I prowled about the house wondering how long I could put off the moment when it would be impossible not to go to Ealing. My head was aching terribly. I did try quite hard during this time to put my thoughts in order. I speculated about my intentions and her feelings. I sketched plans for a dozen or so different turns of events. I even tried to feign imagining what it would be like really to despair: that is, to believe that she did not love me, had never loved me, and that all I could decently do was to vanish from her life. Then I realized that I did despair, I was in despair, nothing could be worse than this experience of her absence and her silence. And yesterday she had been in my arms and we had looked forward into a huge quiet abyss of time, and we had kissed each other without frenzy and without terror, with thoughtful temperate quiet joy. And I had even sent her away when she did not want to go. I had been insane. Perhaps that was the only time which we should ever, ever have together. Perhaps it was something which would never, never, never come again.

Waiting in fear is surely one of the most awful of human tribulations. The wife at the pit head. The prisoner awaiting interrogation. The shipwrecked man on the raft in the empty sea. The sheer extension of time is felt then as physical anguish. The minutes, each of which might bring relief, or at least certainty, pass fruitlessly and manufacture an increase of horror. As the minutes of that morning passed away I felt a cold deadly increase of my conviction that all was lost. This was how it would be from now on and forever. She would never communicate with me again. I endured this until half past eleven and then I decided I must go to Ealing and try to see her by force if necessary. I even thought of arming myself with some weapon. But suppose she was already gone?

It had begun to rain. I had put on my macintosh and was standing in the hall wondering if tears would help. I imagined pushing Arnold violently aside and leaping up the stairs. But what then?

The telephone rang and I lifted it. The voice of an operator said, "Miss Baffin is calling you from an Ealing call box, will you pay for the call?"

"What? Is that-?"

"Miss Baffin is calling you--"

"Yes, yes, I'll pay, yes--"Bradley. It's me."

"Oh darling--Oh thank God--"Bradley, quickly, I must see you, I've run away."

"Oh good, oh my darling, I've been in such a--"Me too. Look, I'm in a telephone box near Ealing Broadway station, I haven't any money."

"I'll come and fetch you in a taxi."

"I'll hide in a shop, I'm so terrified of--"Oh my darling girl--"Tell the taxi to drive slowly past the station, I'll see you."

"Yes, yes."

"But, Bradley, we can't be at your place, that's where they'll go."

"Never mind them. I'm coming to fetch you."

* "What happened?"

"Oh, Bradley, it's been such a nightmare "But what happened?"

"I was an absolute idiot, I told them all about it in a sort of triumphant aggressive way, I felt so happy, I couldn't conceal it or muffle it, and they were livid, at least at first they simply couldn't believe it, and then they rushed off to see you, and I should have run away then, only I was feeling sort of combative and I wanted another session and then when they came back they were much worse, I've never seen my father so upset and angry, he was quite violent."

"God, he didn't beat you?"

"No, no, but he shook me till I was quite giddy and he broke a lot of things in my room--"Oh my sweet--"Then I started to cry and couldn't stop."

"Yes, when I came round--"

"You came round?"

"They didn't tell you?"

"Dad said later on that he'd seen you again. He said you'd agreed to give it all up. I didn't believe him of course."

"Oh my brave dear! He told me you didn't want to see me. Of course I didn't believe him either."

She said, "I love my parents. I suppose. Well, of course I do. Especially my father. Anyway I've never doubted it. But there are things one can't forgive. It's the end of something. And the beginning of something." She turned to me with gravity, her face very tired, a little puffy and battered and creased with much crying, and grim too. One saw what she would look like when she was fifty. And for an instant her unforgiving face reminded me of Rachel in the terrible room.

"Oh Julian, I've brought irrevocable things to you."

"Yes."

"I haven't wrecked your life, have I, you aren't angry with me for having involved you in such trouble?"

"That's your silliest remark yet. Anyway, the row went on for hours, mainly between me and my father, and then when my mother started in he shouted that she was jealous of me, and she shouted that he was in love with me, and then she started to cry and I screamed, and, oh Bradley, I didn't know ordinary educated middle-class English people could behave the way we behaved last night."

"That shows how young you are."

"At last they went off downstairs and I could hear them going on rowing down there, and my mother crying terribly, and I decided I'd had enough and I'd clear out, and then I found they'd locked me in! I'd never been locked in anywhere, even when I was small, I can't tell you how--it was a sort of moment of--illumination--like when people suddenly know--they've got to have a revolution. I was just eternally not going to stand for being locked in."

"You shouted and banged?"

"No, nothing like that. I knew I couldn't get out of the window, it's too high. I sat on my bed and I cried a lot of course. You know, it seems silly in the middle of all this real sort of--carnage--but I was so sad about the little things of mine my father broke. He broke two sort of cups and all my china animals--"Julian, I can't bear this--"And it was so frightening--and sort of humiliating--He didn't find this, though, it was under my pillow." Julian took out of the pocket of her dress the gilt snuffbox, A Friend's Gift.

"Bradley, we passed this stage long ago. When I was sitting on my bed and looking at the broken china on the floor and feeling my life so broken, I felt so strong too and calm in the middle of it all and quite certain about you and quite certain about myself. Look at me. Certainty. Calm." She did look calm too, sitting there beside me with her weary lucid face and her blue dress with white willow leaves on it and her brown shiny young knees and our hands piled together on her lap and the gilt snuffbox in the loop of her skirt.

"You must have more time to think, we can't--"Anyway, about eleven, and that was another last straw, I had to shout and beg them to let me out to go to the lavatory. Then my father came in again and started off on a new tack, being very kind and understanding. It was then he said that he'd seen you again and that you'd said you'd give me up, which of course I knew wasn't true. And then he said he'd take me to Athens--"He told me Venice. I've been in Venice all night."

"He was afraid you'd follow. I was as cold as ice by this time and I'd already made a plan to pretend to agree with anything he said and then to escape as soon as I could. So I acted a climb-down and how a treat like going to Athens made all the difference and--thank God you weren't listening--and--"I know. I did the same. I actually did tell him I'd sheer off. I felt like Saint Peter."

"Bradley, I was so tired by then, God yesterday was a long day, and I don't know if I convinced him, but he said he was very sorry he'd been so bad, and I think he was sorry too, only I couldn't bear his becoming emotional and soppy and wanting to kiss me and so on, and I said I must sleep so he went away at last and my God he locked the door again!"

"Did you sleep?"

"Julian, I feel so terrible, so responsible. I'm glad you felt sorry for your mother. You mustn't hate them, you must pity them. In a way they're right and we're wrong--"Ever since they locked that door I began to feel like a monster. But I was a happy monster. Sometimes one has got to become monstrous in order to survive. I'm old enough to know that, anyway."

I touched her, and through my scorched palm felt and desired the whole of this young sweet guileless being so suddenly and so miraculously given to me. I withdrew my hand and moved slightly away from her. It was almost too much.

"Julian, my heroine, my queen--oh where can we go--we can't go back to my flat."

"I know. They'll be there. Bradley, I must be properly alone with you somewhere."

"Yes. Even if it's only to think."

"What do you mean, even if it's only to think?"

"I feel so guilty about all this--what you called carnage. We haven't decided anything, we mustn't, we don't know--"Bradley, how brave are you really? Are you going to lead me back to my parents? Are you going to stray me like a cat? You are my home now. Bradley, do you love me?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."

"Then you must be bold and free and show qualities of leadership. Think, Bradley, there must be some sort of secret place we can go, even if it's only a hotel."

"Oh Julian, we can't go to a hotel. There isn't anywhere secret we can go to--Oh my God, yes there is! There is, there is, there is!"

The door of the flat was open. Had I left it open? Was Arnold inside waiting for me?

I went in quietly and stood in the hall listening. Then I heard a nearby rustling sound which seemed to come from my bedroom. Then a curious noise such as some bird might make, a sort of descending "woo-oo." I stood stiffly, prickling with alarm. Then there was the unmistakable sound of someone yawning. I went forward and opened the bedroom door.

"I decided to come back to you. They tried to stop me but I came. They turned me over to the doctors. They wanted me to stay in the hospital but I wouldn't. There were mad people there, I'm not mad. I had some of the shock treatment. It makes you feel terrible. You scream and throw yourself across the room. They ought to hold you. I bruised my arm. Look." She was speaking very slowly. She began laboriously to pull off the navy-blue jacket.

"Priscilla, you can't stay here. I've got somebody waiting for me. We're just going to leave London." Julian was in Oxford Street buying clothes with my money.

"Look." Priscilla was rolling up the sleeve of her blouse. There was a large mottled bruise on her upper arm. "Or do you think they were holding me? Perhaps they were holding me. They have a sort of strait jacket they use but they didn't put it on me. I think. I can't remember. It rattles one's head so. It can't be good. And now they've done something to my brain that won't come right again ever. I didn't understand before what it was. I wanted to ask you about it but you didn't come. And Arnold and Christian were always talking and laughing, I couldn't be quiet in myself for their racket and their cackling. I felt such a stranger there, like a poor lodger. One must be with one's own people. And I want you to help me with the divorce. I felt so ashamed with them because everything in their life was going so well and they were so sort of successful. I couldn't talk about what I wanted with them and they were always in a hurry--and then they got me to start out on these electric shocks. One shouldn't do things in a hurry, one always regrets it. Oh Bradley, I wish I hadn't had those shocks, I can feel my brain's half destroyed with them. It stands to reason, people aren't supposed to have electric shocks are they?"

"Where's Arnold?" I said.

"He's just gone away with Francis."

"He was here?"

"Yes. He came after me. I just walked out after breakfast. Not that I had any breakfast, I can't eat these days at all, I can't bear the smell of food. Bradley, I want you to go with me to the lawyer, and I want you to go with me to the hairdresser, I must get my hair rinsed. I think I can just do that, it won't be too much for me. Then I think I'll rest. What did Roger say about my mink stole? I kept worrying about that. Why didn't you visit me? I kept asking for you. I want you to go with me to the lawyer this morning."

"Priscilla, I can't go anywhere with you this morning. I've got to get out of London quickly. Oh why did you come here!"

"What did Roger say about my mink stole?"

"He sold it. He'll give you the money."

"Oh no! It was such a lovely one, such a special one--"

"Please don't cry--"I'm not crying. I came all the way from Netting Hill by myself, and I shouldn't, I'm ill. I think I'll sit in the sitting-room for a while. Could you make me some tea?" She got up heavily and pushed past me. I smelt a rank animal smell off her mingled with some sort of hospital odour. Formaldehyde perhaps. Her face looked ponderous and sleepy and her lower lip drooped with an effect resembling a sneer. She sat down slowly and carefully in the small armchair and put her feet on a footstool.

"Priscilla, you can't stay here! I've got to leave London!"

She yawned hugely, her nose snubbing up, her eyes squeezed, one hand questing through her blouse to scratch her armpit. She rubbed her eyes and then began to undo the middle buttons of her blouse. "I keep yawning and yawning and I keep scratching and scratching and my legs ache and I can't keep still. I expect it's the electricity. Bradley, you won't leave me will you, you're all I've got now, you can't go away. What were you saying? Did Roger really sell my mink stole?"

"I'll make you some tea," I said to get out of the room. I went to the kitchen and actually put the kettle on. I was horribly upset at the sight of Priscilla, but of course there was no question of changing my plans. I just could not think what to do immediately. I had a rendezvous with Julian in half an hour's time. If I failed to turn up she would come straight here. Meanwhile Arnold, unaccountably absent, might turn up at any moment.

Someone came in through the front door. I issued quickly from the kitchen, ready to make a dash for freedom. I charged into Francis with such force that I butted him back out of the doorway. We held onto each other.

"Where's Arnold?"

"I strayed him," said Francis, "but you haven't much time."

I pulled Francis outside into the court. I wanted to be able to see Arnold coming. Francis was such a relief, I held firmly onto both his sleeves in case he should run away, which however he seemed unlikely to do. He smirked at me, looking pleased with himself.

"Has he told you--?"

"He told Christian who told me. Chris is enjoying it all like mad."

"Francis,, listen. I'm going away with Julian today. I want you to stay with Priscilla here, or at Notting Hill, wherever she wants to be. Here's a cheque, a big one, and I'll give you more."

"I say, thanks! Where are you going?"

"Never mind. I'll telephone you at intervals to see how Priscilla is. Thanks for your help. Now I must pack one or two things and get out."

"Brad, look. I brought this back. I'm afraid it's properly broken now. I broke off the foot trying to straighten it out." He thrust something into my hand. It was the little bronze of the buffalo lady.

We went back into the house and I dropped the latch on the street door and shut the door of the flat. There was a sort of screeching noise inside the flat. It was the whistling electric kettle announcing that the water was boiling. "Make tea, would you, Francis."

I ran into my bedroom and hurled clothes into a suitcase. Then I returned to the sitting-room.

Priscilla was sitting bolt upright now, looking frightened. "What was that noise?"

"The kettle."

"Who is it there?"

"Just Francis. He'll stay with you. I've got to go."

"When will you be back? You aren't going properly away are you, for days?"

"I'm not sure. I'll ring up."

"Oh Bradley, please, please don't leave me. It's so frightening, everything frightens me now, I get so frightened at night. You are my brother, I know you'll look after me, you can't leave me with strangers. And I don't know what to do for the best and you're the only person I can talk to. I think I won't go and see the lawyer yet. I don't know what to do about Roger. Oh I wish I'd never left him, I want Roger, I want Roger--Roger would pity me if he saw me now."

"It's broken now," she said.

"Yes. Francis broke it trying to mend it."

"I don't want it now any more."

I picked it up. One of the buffalo's front legs was broken off jaggedly near the body. I laid the bronze on its side in the lacquer cabinet.

"It's quite broken now. Oh how sad, how sad- "Priscilla, stop it!"

"Oh dear, I do want Roger, Roger was mine, we belonged together, he was mine and I was his."

"Don't be silly, Priscilla. Roger's a dead loss."

"I want you to go to Roger and tell him I'm sorry- "Certainly not!"

"I want Roger, dear Roger, I want him- I tried to kiss her, at least I approached my face to the dark soiled line of the grey hair, but she jerked her head as I stooped and rapped me hard on the jaw. "Good-bye, Priscilla, I'll ring up."

"Oh don't go away and leave me, please, please, please--I was at the door. She stared up at me now with huge slow tears coming out of her eyes, her gaping mouth all red and wet. I turned from her. Francis was just emerging from the kitchen with the tea tray. I saluted him and ran out of the house and along the court. At the end of the court I paused and peered cautiously out round the corner.

Arnold and Christian were just getting out of a taxi about ten yards away. Arnold was paying the taxi man. Christian saw me. She at once moved, turning her back to me and placing herself between me and Arnold.

I dodged back. There is a tiny slit of an alleyway just before the court debouches and I wedged myself into this, and saw almost instantly Arnold striding past, his face set hard with anxiety and purpose. Christian followed him more slowly, her eyes questing about. She saw me again and she made a gesture of a sort of Oriental voluptuousness, a kind of amused sensuous homage, lifting her hands palm upwards and then bringing them sinuously down to her sides like a ballet dancer. She did not pause. I waited some moments and then emerged.