«Describe your costume.»
«Well, I wore black tights and black velvet shoes with silvery buckles and a sort of black slinky jerkin with a low opening and a white silk shirt underneath that and a big gold chain round my neck and-What's the matter, Bradley?»
«Nothing.»
«I thought I looked a lot like a picture I saw of John Gielgud.»
«Who is he?»
«Bradley, he's an actor-«
«You misunderstand me, child. Go on.»
«That's all. I enjoyed it ever so much. Especially the fight at the end.»
«I think I'll close the window again,» I said, «if you don't object.» I closed it and the London buzz became indistinct, something internal, something in the mind, and we were alone again in a warm small thingy solitude. I stared at the girl. She was dreamy, combing her layers of greeny-golden hair with long fingers, seeing herself as Hamlet, sword in hand.
«Here thou incestuous murderous damned Dane-«Bradley, you must be a mind-reader. Look, do tell me something more about what you were saying, couldn't you sort of put it in a nutshell?»
«Hamlet is a piece a clef. It is about someone Shakespeare was in love with.»
«Oh you are a tease. They're much as usual. Dad's out at the library all day, scribble, scribble, scribble. Mum stays at home and moves the furniture about and broods. It's such a pity she never had any education. She's so intelligent.»
«Don't be so bloody sorry for them,» I said. «They're marvellous people, both of them, marvellous people with real private lives of their own.»
«Sorry. I must have sounded awful. I suppose I am awful. Perhaps all young people are awful.»
«Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. Only some.»
«Sorry, Bradley. I say, I do wish you'd come and see the parents oftener, I think you do them good.»
I felt some shame in asking her about Arnold and Rachel, but I wanted to be, and now was, sure that they had said nothing damaging about me.
«So you want to be a writer?» I said. I was still leaning back against the window. She was pointing her alert secretive little face at me. With her mane of hair she looked more like a nice dog than like Royal Denmark. She had crossed her legs now, one lying horizontal upon the other, showing off the purple boots and a maximum amount of pink tights. Her hand played at her neck, opening another button, questing within. I could smell her sweat, her feet, her breasts.
«I feel I can. I'm ready to wait. I won't rush into it. I want to write hard dense impersonal sort of books, not a bit like me.»
«Good girl.»
ш «I certainly won't call myself Julian Baffin-«Julian,» I said. «I think you'd better go.»
«I'm so sorry-Oh Bradley, I have enjoyed this. Do you think we could meet again before long? I know you hate to be tied down. Aren't you going away?»
