Balefanio - tmp0

marshalling his rehearsed intentions, his pre­arranged attitudes, closing the eyes of his reason, he rapped loudly on the door. "Come in."

It was quite a small room, and Edward Blake lay in bed, facing the window. He did not turn his head at once, and Eric had a moment's impres­sion of the profile of an invalid—pale, unshaven, staring passively at the daylight. His breakfast stood beside him on a little table, but he seemed to have eaten nothing.

He turned slowly, beginning a yawn which abruptly ended:

"Hullo? Good morning."

He may well look surprised, Eric thought. Answered gravely:

"Good morning."

There was a pause, during which Edward seemed to become fully awake:

"Won't you sit down?"

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

Edward yawned, stretched himself, grinned:

"Do by all means, if you prefer it."

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," said Eric, feeling the anger rise within him. "I shouldn't have come so early."

"Not at all."

"I shan't keep you long."

Edward reached a thin, sallow hand out to the table for a cigarette case:

"Won't you smoke?"

"No, thank you."

"As a matter of fact," said Edward, lighting his cigarette, "I'm very grateful to you for calling me. I've got to catch a train up to town today."

"I know. That's why I came."

"I see."

"There's s-something"—Eric made a desperate effort to control his voice, but it was loud, hoarse, abrupt, and the stammer seized him—"s-something I must t-talk to you about."

A very faint smile seemed to pass like a shadow over Edward's mouth. He was sneering again. The swine. He exclaimed suddenly:

"I say, I do wish you'd sit down."

Eric made no acknowledgment. He took a chair, curtly, with a certain pleasure that he'd managed to get on Edward's nerves. There was a long silence. Eric was quite calm again now—ready for the attack. But he wasn't going to lose the least advantage. Edward should speak first.

"Well, what is it?"

Eric moved his chair a little.

"It's about Maurice."

A chambermaid passed down the passage with a clinking tray.

"About Maurice?"

"Yes."

Again that shadow of a smile on Edward's face.

"What about Maurice?"

"I think you know quite well." Eric felt the blood suddenly burn hot in his cheeks. He said furiously: "And I'm p-perfectly well aware that it's none of my business."

"Don't let that worry you." Edward openly grinned. "I suppose you came here this morning to tell me to leave Maurice alone?"

"Yes, I did." But Eric, for all his defiance, couldn't help showing surprise.

"You're wondering how I guessed?"

"I suppose all this is just a joke to you."

"I beg your pardon, Eric."

"It's all very well for you to smile. Perhaps you d-don't realise that one person can wreck another p-person's whole life."

Edward stubbed out his cigarette. Took another.

"So you think my influence over Maurice— such as it is—is bad?"

"I think it's about as rotten as it could possibly be."

Edward smiled. Said pleasantly:

"Hadn't you better tell me exactly what it is you object to?"

"You give him presents. You pay for every­thing. You take him everywhere. You encourage him to rely on you for money. You follow him about. Even when he's up here you can't leave him alone------"

"You know yourself that that isn't true."

Eric disregarded the interruption:

"Perhaps you're not aware that you're the talk of the College?"

"Really?" Edward laughed. "The College must have very little to do."

"That doesn't make it any better for Maurice."

"And what does the College say?"

Eric felt himself blushing again:

"You can imagine."

"And you agree with them?"

"What I t-think"—Eric's voice shook—"is n-none of your business."

There was a pause. Edward blew a puff of smoke from his cigarette. He said mildly:

"I suppose you realise that, in making these insinuations, you're suggesting that Maurice is as bad, or nearly as bad, as I am. After all, he isn't a child."

"He's as weak-minded as one."

"And you can't imagine that there could be a perfectly decent and respectable friendship be­tween two people, one of whom had money and the other hadn't?"

"Of course I can imagine it. But not between you and Maurice."

"Why not?"

"Because you're old enough to be his father."

Edward laughed, but Eric could see that he was taken aback.

"Do I seem so old to you?"

"It doesn't matter what you seem to me"— Eric was contemptuous—"the point is: you are old."

"And even assuming my great age, you don't think it should ever be permitted for an old man to prefer the company of a young one to that of other old men?"

"All I think is," said Eric impatiently, "that you're doing Maurice harm. And so I've come to ask you to leave him alone."

Edward was sitting up in bed now. His hair was ruffled into a kind of crest, making him look like an alertly impudent bird. He asked, smiling:

"And supposing I don't? What shall you do?"

Eric answered gravely:

"I can't do anything."

"You could tell Mary, for instance, what you think."

"She wouldn't understand."

There was a long silence. Edward smoked, smiling faintly to himself. At length he asked:

"I suppose, Eric, I'm the wickedest person you've ever met?"

"I don't think you're wicked. I think you're weak."

Edward grinned broadly.

"You don't blame me too much?"

"I don't blame you at all. What you d-do is no affair of mine."

"So long as it doesn't affect Maurice?"

"Yes."

"But tell me, Eric—this interests me. If I'm not wicked, I suppose you think I'm really a bit mad?"

Eric felt himself go scarlet. He said confusedly:

"I know you had a very bad time in the War."

"So did others."

Eric was silent.

"You think it's about time I pulled myself together?"

"At least"—Eric did not mean it unkindly— "you could make an effort."

Rather to his surprise, Edward smiled:

"Yes, the War's getting a bit old as an excuse now, isn't it?"

Edward dropped the stump of his cigarette into the coffee-cup. Added:

"Well, I'm afraid I can hardly promise to re­form myself. But I'll do my best to keep clear of Maurice. Will that satisfy you?"

"If you really mean what you say."

"I give you my word of honour. But, of course, I forgot. I haven't any, as far as you're concerned."

Eric did not reply. Edward continued in a different tone:

"Eric, your father was the only real friend I've ever had. It seems rather silly that we should be enemies."

"I'm not your enemy."

Edward made a grimace.

"I'm afraid that's not saying very much, is it? Well I, at any rate, rather admire you."

"I d-don't want your admiration!" exclaimed Eric in a loud, childish voice. He had risen to his feet. Trembling, furious with himself, he knew that in a moment he would burst into tears. "I m-must be g-going," he muttered. Gathering his books and gown, he made blindly for the door.

"Good-bye," Edward called after him. "And thanks for waking me up."

That evening Margaret was in her studio. There was a terrific postman's knock.

"Thank God, you're in."

"Why, Edward, Whatever's the matter?"

He stumbled across the room, collapsed on the divan like a sack. He looked up at her slowly, with an uncertain grin:

"Don't get the wind up. I'm only a bit tight."

Margaret thought that he looked much worse than tight. She said briskly, in a voice she hadn't often used since Red Cross days during the War:

"That's all right. Put your feet up. Shall I make you some black coffee?"

"My God, if you would!"

She hurried into the little kitchen, came back with cups. At first Edward lay with closed eyes. Then he opened them and watched her. She moved briskly. The coffee was soon ready. Surprisingly soon. Margaret was never to be taken un­awares. She'd made Edward coffee before.