She was still sitting in front of the fire. Something in her pose, the crossed knees, the shoe that hung loosely on the small foot, made her seem very young. He said:
What time does the train go from Hampstead?
I'm not sure. They go earlier on Sundays. It might have gone by now.
I'd better hurry.
You can't go yet. You'll be soaked. Hadn't you better stay here?
He asked with surprise:
All night, you mean?
You… could if you wanted to.
What about your reputation with the neighbours?
She looked away from his smile:
It's none of their business, is it?
Well… thanks very much. Where would I sleep?
Down here. Or in Caroline's room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with Caroline's sheets if you sleep in there…
That's fine. I don't mind at all.
I put them on last time she came here. They ought to be clean. Would you rather sleep upstairs?
I don't mind. Whichever is least trouble…
I'll go and turn the fire on.
He felt she was glad to get out of the room. He wondered if the thought of offering him Caroline's bed had suddenly struck her with embarrassment, recognising its meaning as a symbol of vicarious intimacy. After a moment's hesitation, he followed her upstairs.
She was changing the pillow-case as he came into the room; the bedclothes were pulled back to air. The bars of the electric fire were warming to redness. He picked up a nylon nightdress that had slipped down the bottom of the bed, asking:
Is this Caroline's?
She snatched it from him, and dropped it into a drawer.
No. It's one of mine that she borrowed.
She went out of the room, saying:
I'll get you a hot-water bottle.
He looked down at the photograph of Caroline, and experienced a feeling that was not unlike guilt. With surprise, he realised he was a little in love with Caroline. It was an unexpected recognition; the feeling seemed to have developed retrospectively since he had last seen her. At the time, he had been aware of nothing but a certain amused tenderness, and the gratitude that is a response to a woman's offer of her body.
Miss Quincey came in while he was still looking at it. She asked:
Do you like Caroline?
Of course. She's very sweet.
She dropped the hot-water bottle into the bed and adjusted the sheets. She said suddenly:
I'd forgotten that I'd left the washbasin next door half full of clothes. I was starting to wash them when you arrived. So I'd better finish them now. Do you want to go to bed yet?
Er… no, not especially. Why?
I think I shall go soon. I'm rather tired.
He followed her out of the room, sensing a tension in her. He wondered if she was regretting asking him to stay. She asked:
Would you like some hot chocolate before I go to bed? I shall make some for myself.
Thanks. I'd like some.
She went into the bedroom; he heard the lock click. He stared at the door, shaking his head. Her changes of mood baffled him. He went downstairs slowly, toying with the idea of leaving, then abandoned it; she had already prepared the room.
In the sitting-room, he helped himself to a sweet martini, and lay down on the settee, unlacing his shoes. He ate the remaining ham sandwich, and stared at the moving shadows on the ceiling. He remembered Miss Quincey's face as she had talked about Austin, and experienced again a protective warmth. He thought with amusement: This family has a talent for inspiring affection. But they are all weak: Austin, Caroline, Gertrude. They need people.
Strange, the element of love that has nothing to do with sex. I feel it for Austin, for Caroline. For Gertrude too. Less, perhaps, for Gertrude. Why is it supposed to be impossible to love more than one person?
Still thinking about it, he fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of running water from overhead.
He woke up suddenly and half sat up. A moment later Gertrude Quincey came into the room, carrying a cup and saucer. She was wearing a blue dressing-gown, belted at the waist, and carpet slippers. Her hair was hanging loosely down her back; there was more of it than he realised. Without makeup, her face looked pale.
What time is it?
After midnight.
I've been asleep.
I know. I came in just now. I'm going to bed.
Wait. Don't go yet.
She had set the cup down beside the settee. He reached out and took her hand before she could move away, and pulled it gently.
It felt cold and slim. As she sat down, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. She made no movement to resist
You're cold.
I know. I always get cold after a bath.
He tried to pull her down beside him, his hand on her waist. She resisted for a moment, then stood up. She said:
I've left my chocolate outside.
He listened as she went into the kitchen, then returned carrying her own cup. As she sat down beside him again, he felt a shock of pleasure. He had been certain she would sit in the armchair. He said:
Put your feet on.
No.
Please.
No, Gerard.
He pulled at her waist, causing her to overbalance; as her body rested against him, he repeated:
Please.
She swung her feet up beside him, tugging at the bottom of the dressing-gown. Immediately, he pulled her closer and bent to kiss her. Her face turned away, and his lips met her neck. The flesh was cold. He made no attempt to force her, glad to feel her pressed against him, the coldness warming against his face. He kissed her ear and the side of her face, stroking the long hair with his free hand. She shivered against him, then seemed to die. Her eyes were closed. He reached out for the car rug that hung over the back of the settee, and pulled it over them, then lay beside her, closing his eyes, the satisfaction running through him in a faint tremor. In the darkness behind his closed lids he forgot she lay beside him, feeling a total evacuation of thoughts and impulses that left nothing but his body's comfort. She had made no movement; only her breathing indicated she was alive. He was already half asleep when she stirred. She sat up, saying:
We'd better drink this.
He forced himself into a sitting position and took the cup from her. He drank it propped on one elbow, his shoulder against the cushion. It was lukewarm, and he drank it quickly. Neither spoke. As she took his cup, he lay down again; a moment later, she joined him. This time, she made no attempt to avoid his mouth as he kissed her. The thin lips excited him; he pressed them open slightly, breathing deeply. She was completely passive. His rising excitement brought a reaction of caution; he relaxed deliberately, and lay beside her again, pulling her against him. His left palm was flat against her back, enjoying the sensuous feel of the jaeger fabric that enclosed her body. The pleasure was a tension in him that resisted time; it was enough to feel her there. For a moment, his consciousness expanded and became complete, aware of his past, present and future as a unity, beyond self-doubt. When he
