Tangier

to combine charm and arrogance there, catch the two qualities at once.

The painting had come to obsess him. One part of him wanted to finish it quickly, and another to work on it for months. He was repelled by it, and fascinated. Often, not against his will, he found it drawing him into the amoral twilight world of his friend.

Laurence Luscombe walked to town early, his empty shopping basket swinging from his arm. He knew he'd find himself a lift if he waited until the Mountain people left for church, but he had no desire to see them-their questions and glances disturbed his mood.

He'd spent the last weeks keeping to himself. All people did anyway was ask him about the feud-the talk of the Mountain, it seemed, fanned by frequent mentions in Robin's columns. One time when he did accept a ride in Camilla Weltonwhist's Rolls-he couldn't refuse; her driver had pulled right up to him-she talked the whole way of how much 'fun' TP was getting to be now that it had 'come of age.' He knew damn well what she meant: that he was too serious, and that Kelly's vulgar humor made good relief.

This particular Sunday he walked early to the Socco, bought himself fruit and a quarter kilo of fish, then trudged over to Derik Law's flat, a cozy place on Campo-Amor.

Derik, off from his travel agency, met him at the door. 'Bathroom's all ready, Larry. Dry towel and fresh bar of soap.'

It was kind of Derik to let him use the shower. He'd given Laurence a set of keys to the flat so he could use it whenever he liked, but Sunday was best, since Derik was at home and after the shower the two of them could talk.

'You going to church?' Derik asked, as Laurence emerged from the bathroom combing his hair.

He shook his head. 'I've no particular desire to see Peter Barclay in his glory. I've got enough problems of my own.'

Derik nodded. 'What're you going to do, Larry? Call a special meeting and read Kelly out?'

'Not sure yet. Still have some thinking to do. Be stupid of me to go through with that if I didn't have the votes.'

'I know Kelly's got the Calloways and Whyte. David Packwood doesn't like him, though-he and Jill would probably split. '

'What about the Drears?'

'Jessamyn's sold on the Yank, but Jessica's still up in the air. What you've got to do is bring in the patrons. They're entitled to vote, and if enough of them show up you'll win.'

'I know. But I don't want to win that way. It would be a Pyrrhic victory and would split the group. I have to think beyond Kelly, to the seasons ahead. If we read him out, with the patrons throwing their weight behind me, we alienate the active members, and when Kelly cries in his coffee they'll all go off with him. The Drears, the Calloways, and the Packwoods are the hard core. That's the problem-what happens after Kelly's out?'

'Well-maybe the best course would be to let everything cool down. Don't call any meetings and forget the summer production. In the meantime you and Kelly could try to work things out.'

'Never!' said Laurence, pounding the arm of his chair. 'Not after he called me 'dear old hack.' '

'Oh, forget that. He didn't mean it. Suppose Kelly apologized-would that make things all right?'

'He won't do it. Man doesn't have a decent bone in his body.'

'But suppose he did? Suppose some of us went to him, told him how we felt, and tried to patch things up? Neither of you wants to see TP go down the drain.'

'Kelly doesn't care a fig about TP.'

'But suppose he agreed to split productions with you? Each of you would do two a year, and the rest of the time you'd stay out of each other's way. What would you think of that?'

Laurence sat up straight.

'Have you been talking to Kelly behind my back?'

'Oh, come off it, Larry. You know me better than that. It's just the only way I see. Each of you has to come halfway.'

'I founded TP, damn it! Now you ask me to give half of it to a man I don't respect.'

Laurence wondered then whether to confide his calculations or wait until later when he was sure. A glance at Derik's sympathetic face convinced him to confide. 'I've been thinking about this a lot lately,' he said, 'and I've a few ideas in mind. Maybe TP is getting stodgy. Maybe we ought to bring in new blood.' He paused, gave a little smile. 'Not at the top, necessarily, but among the actors. The way I figure it, if I go out and recruit new people it'll throw the old hard core off. I mean they might forget about Kelly and start worrying about their own hides for a while. They all think they're indispensable, but if I brought in Mr. Fufu, for instance, and, say, launched him in Emperor Jones, or the Knowles'-damn attractive couple; they could do situation comedy for sure-then you might see Jack Whyte's hackles rise, and a jealous pout on Jill Packwood's face. See what I mean, Derik-put them on the defensive, make them feel insecure. Then you can bet they'd forget about Kelly and be around to curry favor with me.'

Derik thought a while before he replied. 'It might work, Larry,' he said. 'And then again it might not.'

Robin Scott came early to St. Thomas-he wanted a good seat for what he'd billed in his column as 'the ecclesiastical event of the year.' After Camilla Weltonwhist showed him to a rear pew, he began to jot down notes on the personages filling up the church.

The Foster Knowles‘: elastic bodies-lanky minds

The Ashton Codds: out-of-date clothing; a last hurrah

Patrick Wax: cold, flawed steel

Dr. Sedgewick Radcliffe: wrinkled neck

The Willard Manchesters: sloppy socks

The Clive Whittles: imperious airs

Deborah Gates: squishy wench

Darryl Kranker: malformed queer

Percy Bainbridge: fragile pride

Lester Brown: barracks buttermilk

The Drears: God help us!

Vincent Doyle: old literary lion nibbling on his own claws

Lord and Lady Pitt: wrinkled parchment

Heidi Steigmuller: cigarettes-and-whiskey voice

After a while Robin gave up-too many people were thronging in. Tessa and David Hawkins appeared in riding garb, their crops stuck into their boots.

In the last minutes before the service began there was a feverish rush for seats. There was suspense too-the sort one might expect at an arena just before someone is due to be thrown to a lion.

When Peter Barclay walked in, late as usual, all heads craned. He went to the front pew, cool as anything, Robin thought, head held high, upper lip stiff, stabbing methodically at the floor with his cane. Some dastard in the church had done him a nasty deed, but Robin could read nothing on his face but a decadent aristocrat's pride.

Soon the overcrowding and the pleasant weather outside began to build up the heat. People's foreheads gleamed, and by the reading of the first psalm Robin felt wet patches growing beneath his arms. He'd worn a ratty tweed jacket, and cursed himself for the mistake.

He hadn't been in a church in fifteen years, but it seemed to him the service was running much too long. It was as if Vicar Wick, enthralled by his captive audience, wanted to unleash every bit of hocus-pocus in his Anglican bag of tricks.

Robin was disappointed at the sermon. Taking Christ's Golden Rule as his theme, the Vicar preached a full ten minutes on the virtues of loving one's neighbor as oneself. Robin was lulled and about to doze, believing his excitement had been falsely aroused, when suddenly, after the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, the Vicar stepped to the middle of the transept and made a gesture with his hands. He'd been holding them together, fingers touching at