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Harry. It was an imagined scene. His father had been drowned when out sailing alone on a mildly breezy day in a lonely region of sea off the coast of Scotland. His empty boat, in perfect order, was found later ghosting along by itself. Casimir must have fallen overboard accidentally. Harry knew that his life-hungry father would never have committed suicide. He was a strong swimmer. Harry pictured the man in the sea swimming and swimming, and watching the boat, always moving a little too fast, gradually draw away. Deep painful associations, framed in the deep secrecy of his mind, drew him back to the present. He pictured Stuart’s pale unlined calm face, so lately that of a boy, his pale face, his yellow eyes, his ‘don’t be cross’, so reminiscent of childhood. What’s the matter with him, he wondered, and why does it upset me so? Is it mania, or to attract attention, or is it some unusual form of courage ? In that boy, it’s not nothing, he’s got a will, he’s tough, he’s tougher than me. Had he engendered a monster? He was hurt in his secret soul by Stuart’s judgment of him.
     
     
    Stuart, dismissed by Harry, went upstairs and knocked on Edward’s door. He could see the light was on. There was no answer. He went in.
    Stuart had of course seen Edward and uttered words to him since Mark Wilsden’s death, but he had not had ‘a talk’ with his brother. Stuart had been occupied with closing down his academic life, moving out of his digs, ordering his mind. He had had, during this time, no close friend or mentor. He reproached himself for not having earlier forced a meeting with Edward, who had made it clear that he did not want to talk to Stuart.
    Edward, in pyjamas, was sitting up in bed reading a book. He looked different, changed, smaller. His face had shrunk, it was gathered and stained. Wrinkles had appeared on his forehead and about his eyes, the flesh of his brow was pulled into a painful knot above his nose, which had become sharp and thin. When he saw Stuart he frowned with irritation, and held onto his book with the air of being determined to see his visitor off promptly.
    ‘What is it?’ said Edward.
    ‘Can we talk?’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Oh — about things — ’
    ‘What things?’
    Stuart looked round Edward’s room. There were bookshelves, French posters, a pink azalea on the chest of drawers. The floor and every other level surface was covered with Edward’s clothes interspersed with letters, some unopened. He decanted Edward’s shirt and trousers off a chair and sat down beside the bed. ‘Are you warm enough, would you like a hot water-bottle?’
    ‘No. I’m all right.’
    ‘What are you reading?’
    Edward displayed the paperback thriller. ‘Harry got me some more of these.’
    ‘You shouldn’t read that stuff,’ said Stuart.
    Edward, instead of getting annoyed, replied reasonably enough, ‘I can’t read anything else, nothing else would hold my attention.’ He rearranged his pillows. ‘What do you suggest I read,’ he asked ironically, ‘the Bible?’
    ‘Well, why not, just a bit now and then. I just mean — like good novels — like — ’ Stuart, who was not a reader of fiction, could not immediately think of one.
    ‘Don’t suggest Proust — I’d be sick, I’d choke and die. Not that that would signify, I’m dead anyway. Do go away, Stuart, there’s a good chap.’
    ‘I won’t just yet if you don’t mind. What a nice plant you’ve got. What is it? It’s like a little tree.’
    ‘It’s an azalea, Midge brought it yesterday. She brought some chocolates too. You don’t like chocolates, do you? I’ll throw them away.’
    ‘Did you talk to Midge?’
    ‘Of course not, she was shivering with embarrassment, she just wanted to make a virtuous gesture and run. No wonder. I’m a stinking corpse. Particle by particle I’m going bad.’
    ‘Don’t talk so,’ said Stuart, ‘what is it, what is it ?’
    ‘It’s no good talking to me,’ said Edward.