Callendar, 'I get into fights.'
'Of course,' says Howard, 'for perfectly good reasons these kids don't trust anyone over thirty.'
'How old do you think I am?' asks Miss Callendar. 'I don't know,' says Howard, 'you're disguised by your clothes.'
'I'm twenty-four,' she says. 'Then you ought to be one of them,' says Howard. 'How old are you?' asks Miss Callendar. 'I'm thirty-four,' says Howard. 'Oh, Dr Kirk,' says Miss Callendar, 'then you oughtn't.'
'Oh,' says Howard, 'there's also the question of right and wrong, good and bad. I choose them. They're on the side of justice.'
'Well, I can understand that,' says Miss Callendar. 'Like so many middle-aged people, you're naturally envious. All this youth charms you. I'm sure you'd allow it anything.' Howard laughs; Miss Callendar says, 'I hope you don't think I'm rude.'
'Oh, no,' says Howard. 'For the same reason, I'd allow you anything.' In the corner of his eye, Howard sees the movements of the party; hands are touching breasts, partners are transacting, couples are disappearing. 'You would?' says Miss Callendar. 'I thought you were trying to make a rebel out of me.'
'I am,' says Howard. 'But what could I rebel about?'
'Everything,' says Howard. 'There's repression and social injustice everywhere.'
'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'but that's what everyone's rebelling about. Isn't there anything new?'
'You have no social conscience,' says Howard. 'I have a conscience,' says Miss Callendar. 'I use it a lot. I think it's a sort of moral conscience. I'm very old-fashioned.'
'We must modernize you,' says Howard. 'There,' says Miss Callendar, 'you
'No,' says Howard. 'Why don't you let me save you from yourself?'
'Och,' says Miss Callendar, 'I think I know just how you'd go about that. No, I'm afraid you're too old for me. I never trust anyone over thirty.'
'What about men under thirty?' asks Howard. 'Oh, you're prepared to vary, if necessary,' says Miss Callendar. 'Well, I don't trust many under it, either.'
'That doesn't leave you much room for manoeuvre,' says Howard. 'Well, I don't manoeuvre much, anyway,' says Miss Callendar. 'Then you're missing out,' says Howard. 'What are you frightened of?'
'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'the new man, but the old techniques. Well, it's been very nice talking to you. But you've got a lot of people here to look after. You mustn't waste your time talking to me.' Miss Callendar puts the marble egg back in the basket on the mantelpiece. 'They're looking after themselves,' says Howard. 'I'm entitled to find my own enjoyment.'
'Oh, I could hardly claim to be that,' says Miss Callendar, 'you'd do much better elsewhere.'
'I also ought to save you from your false principles,' says Howard. 'I may need it one day,' says Miss Callendar, 'and if I do, I'll promise to let you know.'
'You need me,' says Howard. 'Well, thank you,' says Miss Callendar, 'I take your offer of help very kindly. And Mrs Kirk's offer to take me to the family-planning clinic. You all offer a real welcome at Watermouth.'
'We do,' says Howard. 'An entire service. Don't forget.'
Howard walks back into the party; Miss Callendar remains standing by the mantelpiece. Someone has gone out and found more to drink; there is a more subdued air now, a softer sexual excitement. He passes through the bodies, face to face, rump to rump. He inspects the scene for Flora Beniform; there are many faces, but none of them hers. Later on, he is up in his own bedroom. There is deep and utter silence here, except for the sound of an Indian raga, playing on a record player in the corner. The curtains are pulled shut. The spotlight over the bed has been moved from its usual down-facing position, and made to shine upwards at the ceiling; some coloured material, the pink of what is probably a blouse, has been wrapped around it. The bed, with its striped madras cover, has been pushed away from its central place, and is in a corner of the room, under the window. Around the room in the quiet, a circle of people are sitting or lying, touching or holding each other, listening to the rhythm and movements of the music. They are a group of formless shapes, with heads jutting, hand: reaching out, held together by arms that thread from one shape to the next. Joints are passed from hand to hand; they light with a red glow as someone draws, and then they fade. Howard takes in the wordless words of the music; he lets his own room grow stranger and stranger to him. Barbara's housecoat and her caftan, hanging on the hook behind the door, change colour and transpose into pure form. The shine of the misshapen handles on the old chest of drawers, bought in a junk shop when they were furnishing the house, become a focus of colour, a bright, mysterious knot. The wine and the pot make rings inside his head. There are faces that take shape and dissolve in the watery light: the faces of a girl with freaked green eye-rings and white powdered cheeks, of a boy with a skin that is the shade of wet olive. A hand waves idly near him, at him; he takes the joint; retains the hand, turns to kiss the unsexed face. His mind relishes ideas, which rise like smoke, take shape as a statement. The walls shift and open. He gets up and goes, past hands and bodies and legs and hips and breasts, onto the landing.
He opens the door of the toilet. There is a run of water, and a voice that says: 'Who's Hegel?' He shuts it again. The house is quieter now, the party dissipated from its noisy social centre into numerous peripheries. He goes down the stairs. Macintosh sits there, and next to him Anita Dollfuss and her little dog. 'The baby,' says Howard. 'It hasn't started yet,' says Macintosh, 'they think it was all some kind of false alarm.'
'But there is a baby in there?'
'Oh, yes,' says Macintosh, 'there's one there all right.'
'There's a rumour that Mangel's coming here to lecture,' says Howard. 'Good,' says Macintosh, 'I'd like to hear what he's got to say.'
'That's right,' says Howard. In the living-room the faces have all changed; none of them does he recognize. A six-foot woman lies asleep under a five-foot-six coffee table. A man comes up and says: 'I was talking to John Stuart Mill the other day. He's gone off liberty.' Another man says: 'I was talking to Rainer Maria Rilke the other day. He's gone off angels.' Howard says, 'Flora Beniform?'
'Who?' asks one of the men. There is a space by the mantelpiece where the girl stood: Miss Callendar. Myra Beamish comes out of the kitchen, her hair tipped yet further over. 'You didn't tell Henry,' she says. 'I didn't tell anyone,' says Howard. 'It's our secret,' says Myra, 'yours and mine and Sigmund Freud's.'
'He won't tell either,' says Howard. 'I was talking to Sigmund Freud, the other day,' says a man. 'He's gone off sex.'
'Mmmm,' says Myra Beamish, kissing Howard. 'Mmmmmm.'
'Why don't you write a book about it, and shut up?' says someone. 'Howard, do you think it's really true that fully satisfying orgasm can alter our consciousness, as Wilhelm Reich says?' asks Myra. 'I've got to play host,' says Howard. He leaves the living-room. He moves the chair that blocks the staircase down to his study, and goes down the steps.
Above him he can hear the feet of the party pounding. He has had a thought about his book. The book begins: 'The attempt to privatize life, to suppose that it is within single, self-achieving individuals that lie the infinite recesses of being and morality that shape and define life, is a phenomenon of narrow historical significance. It belongs to a particular, and a brief, phase in the evolution of bourgeois capitalism, and is the derivative of peculiar, and temporary, economic arrangements. All the signs are that this conviction about man will soon have passed away.' He opens the door of the study; the glow of the sodium street-lighting falls crazily over the walls, the bookshelves, the African masks, sliced through with lines of shadow from the basement railings. The light is off; he realizes, suddenly, that someone is in the room, sitting in the canvas chair in the further corner. He puts on the light. Half-sitting, half-lying in the chair, her dress awry, the manuscript of the book on the floor around her, is Felicity Phee. He says: 'How did you get here?'
'I knew you had a study down here,' she says, 'I wanted to find it. I thought you were busy with the party.' Howard stares at her: at her anxious white face, at the mottle of spots above her breasts, visible where her dress falls forward as she leans towards him, at her tight-knuckled hands and bitten nails. He says: 'Why? What were you after?'
'I wanted to know what you were like when I don't see you,' she says, 'I wanted to look at your books. See your things.'
'You shouldn't,' says Howard, 'you just get caught.'
'Yes,' says Felicity, 'Is this your next book? I've been reading it.'
'You'd no business to do that,' says Howard, 'it's not quite finished. It's private.'
