She was looking at him steadily now, and he could sense the confusion of feelings that was trying to find expression. He said:
Let me answer the question that's in your mind. I'm not homosexual myself.
She said, blushing:
I knew that.
Did you? How?
I… you…
It made him wonder suddenly if she had noticed his speculative looks at her figure. But she went on, with a kind of hopelessness in her voice: Perhaps I didn't know. I just assumed.
His hostility dissolved in the face of her bewilderment. He would have liked to put his arms around her. He said:
Look here, there's no sense in getting excited about it. I've known about it since I first met Austin, but it didn't worry me. After all, it's his own business. I like him because… well, we're both writers, we've got a lot in common. And… he's a nice person.
But… don't you think it matters?
Do you mean, do I think it's wicked? No, not especially. I'm glad I'm not homosexual myself, but after all it's a matter of taste. I know that some people seem to be homosexual out of sheer worthlessness. But others seem to be born like it…
He was remembering, as he talked, the impatience that he'd felt last time he had been here, his irritation in the face of her self-assurance. Now the self-assurance had collapsed, and he felt no better about it. The reversal was too complete.
Are people really born like it?
Of course! Didn't you know?
No, I… I never met anyone like it before. Do you think Austin was always like that?
I should think it likely. I don't know him well enough. What sort of a child was he? Was he a mother's pet?
Oh yes, very much. But why?
Oh, it could have something to do with it.
He began to talk, as detachedly as possible, about statistics of homosexuality, factors of childhood influence, of sex hormones, trying to see her face in the half light.
She listened without interrupting. When he paused, waiting for her to speak, she asked abruptly:
Could he be cured?
I don't know. It's rather late. Probably he doesn't want to be cured. Besides, that's not necessarily Austin's real problem. He accepts it, yet something still worries him.
What do you think?
I don't know. Many homosexuals lead quite ordinary lives. They sometimes settle down with a boy friend, and live like any married couple.
Don't people notice?
Sometimes. But there's nothing very strange about two men sharing a flat.
But you think Austin feels guilty about it?
No. There's just something about him that makes him nervous and restless. I don't know what it is. Something torments him. Whatever it is, it drives him into this lone-wolf attitude. I don't think he could ever live with anyone.
She said with astonishment:
I should hope not! What would his poor parents think?
He said, smiling:
That's another question I can't answer. I can only tell you what any doctor or psychiatrist would tell you — that it's not necessarily a matter of moral turpitude.
She said hesitantly:
The Bible forbids it…
No doubt it does. The Bible forbids fornication and a lot of other things that go on all the time. That doesn't make them right!
No, you're right; it doesn't. But men and women can get married and legalise it.
Homosexuals can't. So what can be done?
She sat, staring into the red bars of the fire. The only sound in the room was the drumming of rain. Sorme stared out into the garden; from where he was sitting he could see his bicycle, covered with the yellow cycling cape. Under the dead sky the lawn, sprinkled with rotting leaves, looked as forbidding as a no-man's-land. The darkness and rain aroused in him a sensation of comfort. Looking at Miss Quincey, he considered the possibility of kissing her, just to see how she would react. She gave him the impression that she was confronting a problem that she was incapable of grasping, and that now nothing would surprise her. She asked:
Couldn't we persuade him to see a psychiatrist? Just on the off-chance of getting a cure?
You could try.
I wonder if his parents suspect? But no, they couldn't…
They might.
She was almost talking to herself; he replied only for the sake of politeness. She said:
He was always a strange child. He had a cruel streak.
Sorme asked with interest:
Did he? How?
Not real cruelty; just a sort of impulsive thing…
How?
He once pushed the gardener's boy off the roof of the shed, and broke his arm.
And he had a curious dislike of dolls.
Was he often cruel?
Not often, no. But he had a sort of… dark side to his character. He'd go into sulks for days on end and refuse to be coaxed out of them. He could never keep toys for more than a few hours — he had to break them. And he didn't get on with other children because he sometimes tried to hurt them or break their toys. It was the same kind of thing as his dislike of dolls.
Whose dolls?
Any little girl's. He once smashed a beautiful doll that belonged to his cousin Jane — an enormous doll that came from Austria. He smashed it with a hammer. He broke all my dolls…
You played with dolls? Sorme asked, smiling.
Not then. But I had dolls that lay around in some old cupboard. Austin discovered them and tore them to pieces.
He sounds quite a delinquent!
Oh no! He wasn't like that all the time. It was just occasionally — a demon seemed to get into him. And when that happened, he became a different person.
But why do you think he smashed dolls?
I don't know. He gets bored so easily. And when he gets bored, I think he has an impulse to do something violent. He's quite capable of asking you to pack a bag and go off to the other side of the world with him…
He has!
What did you say?
I refused. I've other things to do.
Good. You must be very firm with him. You could be a good influence on him… if you don't let him lead you along his own paths.
He won't lead me any further than I want to go!
She seemed to read another threat in this. She asked doubtfully:
Don't you think it might be better if you stopped seeing him?
What should I do instead? Come and see you?
He said it teasingly; to his surprise, she answered with gravity:
