«Yes.»
«What is it?»
«I'm in love.»
«Oh,» said Francis. «Who with?»
«Julian Baffin.»
I had not intended to tell him. It was something to do with Pris– cilla that I did. The pity of it. And then a sense of being battered beyond caring.
Francis took it coolly. I suppose that was the way to take it. «Oh. Is it very bad, I mean your sickness?»
«Yes.»
«Have you told her?»
«Don't be a fool,» I said. «I'm fifty-eight. She's twenty.»
«I don't see that that decides anything much,» said Francis. «Love is no respecter of ages, everyone knows that. Can I have some more whisky?»
«You don't understand,» I said. «I can't-before that-young girl-make a display of feelings such as I-feel. It would appal her. And as I can envisage-no possible relationship with her of that kind-«
«I don't see why not,» said Francis, «though whether it would be a good idea is another matter.»
«Don't talk such utter-It's a question of morals and of-everything. She cannot possibly feel-for me-almost an old man-it would just disgust her-she simply wouldn't want to see me again.»
«There's a lot of assumptions there. As for morals, well maybe, though I don't know. Everything is another matter, especially these days. But will you enjoy going on and on meeting her and keeping your mouth shut?»
«No, of course not.»
«Well, then. Sorry to be so simple-minded. Hadn't you better start pulling out?»
«You've obviously never been in love.»
«I have actually. And awfully. And-always-without hope-I've never had my love reciprocated ever. You can't tell me-«I can't pull out. I'm only just in. I don't know what to do. I feel I'm going mad, I'm trapped.»
«Cut and run. Go to Spain or something.»
«I can't. I'm seeing her on Wednesday. We're going to the opera. Oh Christ.»
«It would sicken her.»
«You could do it with a sort of light touch-«There's a dignity and a power in silence.»
«Silence?» said Francis. «You've broken that already.»
O my prophetic soul. It was true.
