Soup?
Thanks. Aren't you eating?
In a moment. I've had my soup. Do you want a tray?
No, thanks. I'll go to the table.
The first mouthful of tomato soup brought a keen pleasure that made him want to laugh. His stomach relaxed with gratitude, and an inner peace passed over him like a wind, giving a sense of some secret glimpsed and recognised. Miss Quincey asked:
Do you mind coming to eat in the kitchen? When you've finished your soup, of course.
Thanks.
The kitchen was warm; the windows were obscured by a mist of condensed steam. The concert was still audible through an extension loudspeaker above the table.
I hope you like kidneys? It's kidney pie.
He swallowed the first mouthful, and found it good. He said:
When are you going to tell me why you wanted me to come?
Afterwards.
He looked at her, hearing the hurried note of a repressed anxiety in her voice. He said:
All right.
She ate without raising her eyes. The brown woollen dress she was wearing moulded itself to her figure, and had the effect of making him aware that her face seemed older than her body. She looked up suddenly and caught him staring at her. She said critically:
You don't look at all well.
I feel all right.
It was true; there was only still the fatigue, a desire to close his eyes and retreat from the necessity of focusing his attention.
Where were you last night?
At some club…
What club?
Just a night club.
You shouldn't let Austin drag you to clubs.
No.
He suffers from a permanent state of boredom. You ought to know that.
I expect you're right.
A voice from the loudspeaker announced that the last item on the programme would be the Prokofiev fifth symphony. Sorme said: Good. My favourite symphony. Will it go up louder?
He wanted an excuse for finishing the meal without further talk. Miss Quincey obediently reached out and turned up the volume, then ate without speaking. He experienced a sudden flash of affection for her, looking at her averted face, feeling an intuition that she would be easy to hurt.
When he finished eating, she asked: Fruit?
No, thanks. I'm full. I enjoyed it.
Good.
He tried to frame some compliment about her cooking, but gave up the effort.
Watching her fill the kettle, he reflected gloomily that her cooking had given her a right to lecture him. It would also be impossible, after such a meal, to refuse to attend at least one of her Bible classes. He had come to the conclusion that this was what she wanted to talk to him about.
Would you like to listen to the music in the other room? I'll bring in coffee in a moment.
When she came in twenty minutes later he was asleep in front of the electric fire.
On the radio someone was giving a talk on gardening. He woke up as she switched it off.
The noise of rain on the windows became audible; the wind was blowing it in flurries. He said ruefully:
I'm afraid I'm a rotten guest. I can hardly keep awake.
He sugared the coffee from the bowl she held out.
What happened last night?
Oh, I drank too much… and got sick.
Is that all?
He glanced at her in surprise.
Yes. What else did you think?
I don't know.
He could not see her face clearly as she sat down; the half light of the December afternoon filled the room with shadows. He watched her, waiting for her to speak, and finding it difficult to keep his eyelids from dropping. The silence lengthened. She asked finally:
Do you mind if I ask some rather frank questions?
No. Go ahead.
He could feel rather than see her hesitation. A suspicion took shape, and sparked across his mind.
How well do you know Austin?
He said honestly: I don't know. Why?
She began to stir her coffee quickly and nervously, now staring into his face. He said:
What is it you think I ought to know about Austin?
When she spoke, her voice was slightly breathless. It made him feel as if she was looking down from a height that frightened her.
Do you… know why Austin has never married?
He sat up in the chair, the suspicion expanding into a startled incredulity. He answered quickly:
I expect he doesn't like girls.
He watched her, now completely awake, sensing what was about to come, and feeling no desire to help her. He wanted to see how she would manage it. She asked, after a silence:
Do you understand me?
I'm not sure. What are you asking me?
I… it's very difficult for me…
Well, how about coming right out with it? Who's been talking to you about Austin?
You mustn't mention this to him.
No.
Well… Brother Robbins.
What on earth does he know?
She seemed glad to be back on solid ground again.
He has to do a lot of social work — door to door. And when he met Austin for the first time — two weeks ago — he thought he'd seen him somewhere. He didn't tell me at the time, but he made enquiries…
Yes.
… and found that Austin is quite well known in certain circles that are… known to the police.
Criminals?
Oh no!
Irritated into impatience, Sorme said bluntly:
You mean homosexuals?
She said weakly:
Yes.
Your Brother Robbins sounds like a silly gossip, Sorme said curtly.
Oh no. He thought I ought…
Her voice tailed off; the effort to get it all out had made it tremble noticeably. She asked finally:
It is true, then?
Yes.
And you've known all the time?
Most of it. But what does it matter?
