threatened to whip her if she played near water again, so she came around to me to get dry. She got into bed while I made a fire — it was a summer evening — and stayed there till her clothes were dry. Well, I persuaded her to pose sitting in front of the fire, and made a good sketch of her with the firelight behind her — one of the best things I ever did. After that she often posed.
Sorme said:
I can't help feeling you're playing with fire. Her father doesn't sound the kind who'd forget a quarrel.
Glasp said hopelessly:
I know. What can I do? Stop seeing her?
Well… that's up to you, of course. Would it make a big difference if you stopped seeing her for a few months — just to let things cool down?
Of course.
But you've done a lot for her. You've shown her a different way of life. She won't change now.
Glasp grimaced, shrugging:
I'm not so sure. Two of her sisters work in a hosiery factory. That's what her family want her to do. Besides, it's a pretty awful environment to fight against.
It must be a bit of a slum with seven kids.
It is. Sacking on the floor instead of mats, and boxes instead of chairs. And they're considered pretty well off because they live in a thirty-bob-a-week Council flat.
But as you say, she'll be sixteen in a few years' time, and you can take her out of it…
To what? My three pounds ten a week?
It'd be luxury after what she's been used to.
That's… not the point. It's not that I want to marry her. That'd only be a way of getting her legally outside her parents' grasp. That's what matters.
Sorme stretched in the chair, oppressed by the heat. He said slowly:
There could be other ways of doing that. Get someone to agree to act as guardian to her and send her to art school. Someone like Gertrude. If her parents could be persuaded…
Gertrude! Glasp said. That'd be out of the frying-pan into the fire!
Would it?
Glasp leaned forward, staring hard at Sorme; his forehead was twitching again, giving the thin face a slightly insane expression. He said:
You don't understand. I don't want someone else to get her. I don't want other people to keep getting in the way.
The intensity in his voice and the twitching forehead produced a curiously unpleasant impression on Sorme. He made his voice casual, saying:
Yes, I see your point. But you said you didn't particularly want to marry her.
And why should I? Glasp said; there was something strained and irritable about his vehemence. What would that give me, except a legal right to sleep with her?
Oh, a lot…
Glasp interrupted:
But I don't want to sleep with her. I don't even want to touch her. I'm not a bloody pervert. Don't you see? I just want her. I want her more than I've ever wanted anything…
He leaned back, his shoulders slumping; Sorme could almost feel the exhaustion that surrounded him like a grey air. He said soothingly:
That's OK. You've nothing to worry about, have you? You're not likely to lose her. And she's lucky she met you. What have you got to worry about?
Glasp said tiredly:
Not much. Not much at all.
Sorme stood up. He said:
Look here, I've got to go downstairs. Why don't we go out and get a last drink before the pubs close?
Glasp's voice sounded dead.
I don't want another drink. It's time I went back, anyway.
Just as you like…
Going down the stairs, he experienced a feeling of revolt about Glasp and his problems, a sudden understanding that Glasp's mind was no more like his own than Nunne's was, that his intellect was driven by emotions working at steam-heat; the stuffy heat of the room seemed like a physical counterpart of the climate of Glasp's mind. He breathed deeply and gratefully the cold air of the bathroom, smelling of damp plaster and escaping gas from the Ascot, thinking irritably: He needs something to love like the rest of us, but it couldn't be a kitten or a puppy or even a woman, it had to be an under-age girl, so the emotions can work up a nice pressure. And one day the boiler bursts.
He was glad Glasp had decided to leave; his sudden exhaustion had communicated itself to Sorme.
Across the waste ground he could see the light in his room; it puzzled him. He could remember switching it off. As he opened the front door, he thought suddenly: Damnation, Austin, and was glad he had seen Glasp on to the escalator at Camden Town Underground. Mounting the flight of stairs to his room, he saw the open door, and the straw basket that leaned against the doorjamb. It was full of empty beer bottles. He pushed open the door, prepared to say: Hello, Austin.
The old man stood on the rug, his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a neat black suit with a collar and tie. He smiled apologetically at Sorme.
Sorme stood there, in the doorway, unwilling to advance into the room, feeling a choked rage rising in his throat. The old man smiled nervously. Sorme said:
What do you want?
I'm… very sorry to disturb you. I found your door open… I… do hope I'm not intruding.
His politeness softened Sorme, but only to the extent of soothing the desire to be rude. He felt outraged by the invasion of his privacy. He said coldly:
I'd rather you didn't come into my room in my absence.
As he spoke, he made a mental note to lock the door and window whenever he went out.
The old man continued to smile, fidgeting with his hands in the region of the neatly buttoned waistcoat. He pointed at the empty beer bottle on the floor, and said:
I wonder if you require this?
Sorme stared at him blankly.
What?
Your bottle? Perhaps you have more in your cupboard? If you're anxious to get rid of them, I'd be glad to take them away.
Abruptly Sorme understood. He pulled open the cupboard and saw the empty pint bottles on the floor. He had no doubt that the old man had already looked. He said irritably:
Yes, do take them… There aren't many.
Ah, that's really very kind of you! Very kind.
The old man stopped and gathered up the three pint bottles, and the empty quart from the rug. Sorme watched him closely, wondering if he was drunk again. His speech had a clarity and precision it had lacked the last time Sorme had talked with him. He was wearing patent-leather shoes with a high polish. Sorme said:
I suppose you know that it's after ten-thirty. The pubs'll be closed.
The old man was standing by the door, inserting the bottles carefully in the straw bag. He looked up, frowning.
Ten-thirty? No.
He fumbled in the pocket of the waistcoat, then seemed to remember something. He said:
But… but my clock says nine-thirty.
I'm afraid it's wrong.
Oh dear…
He stood there, looking at Sorme, as if it lay in Sorme's power to solve his problem. For a moment, Sorme felt
