«Then she'd better not have it.»
«On the other hand-'
«I ought to see Priscilla,» I said, I think, aloud. But I knew that I just couldn't. I had not got a grain of spirit to offer to any other person. I could not expose myself in my present condition to that poor rapacious craving consciousness.
«Priscilla said she'd do anything you wanted.»
Electric shocks. They batter the brain cage. Like hitting the wireless, they say, to make it go. I must pull myself together. Priscilla.
«We must go-into it-« I said.
«Brad, what's the matter?»
«Nothing. Destruction of cells in the brain.»
«Are you ill?»
«Yes.»
«What is it?»
«I'm in love.»
«Oh,» said Francis. «Who with?»
«Julian Baffin.»
I had not intended to tell him. It was something to do with Pris– cilla that I did. The pity of it. And then a sense of being battered beyond caring.
Francis took it coolly. I suppose that was the way to take it. «Oh. Is it very bad, I mean your sickness?»
«Yes.»
«Have you told her?»
«Don't be a fool,» I said. «I'm fifty-eight. She's twenty.»
«I don't see that that decides anything much,» said Francis. «Love is no respecter of ages, everyone knows that. Can I have some more whisky?»
«You don't understand,» I said. «I can't-before that-young girl-make a display of feelings such as I-feel. It would appal her. And as I can envisage-no possible relationship with her of that kind-«
«I don't see why not,» said Francis, «though whether it would be a good idea is another matter.»
«Don't talk such utter-It's a question of morals and of-everything. She cannot possibly feel-for me-almost an old man-it would just disgust her-she simply wouldn't want to see me again.»
«There's a lot of assumptions there. As for morals, well maybe, though I don't know. Everything is another matter, especially these days. But will you enjoy going on and on meeting her and keeping your mouth shut?»
«No, of course not.»
«Well, then. Sorry to be so simple-minded. Hadn't you better start pulling out?»
«You've obviously never been in love.»
«I have actually. And awfully. And-always-without hope-I've never had my love reciprocated ever. You can't tell me-«I can't pull out. I'm only just in. I don't know what to do. I feel I'm going mad, I'm trapped.»
«Cut and run. Go to Spain or something.»
«I can't. I'm seeing her on Wednesday. We're going to the opera. Oh Christ.»
«It would sicken her.»
«You could do it with a sort of light touch-«There's a dignity and a power in silence.»
«Silence?» said Francis. «You've broken that already.»
O my prophetic soul. It was true.
«Of course I won't tell anybody,» said Francis. «But why after all did you tell me? You didn't intend to and you'll regret it. You'll probably hate me for it. But please, please don't if you can. You told me because you were frantic, because you felt an irresistible nervous urge. You'll tell her, sooner or later, for the same reason.»
«Never.»
«There's no need to make such heavy weather of it. As for her being sickened, it's far more likely that she'll laugh.»
«Laugh?»
«Young people can't take too seriously the feelings of oldies like us. She'll be rather touched, but she'll regard it as an absurd infatuation. She'll be amused, fascinated. It'll make her day.»
«Oh get out,» I said, «get out.»
«Brad, you are cross with me, don't be, it wasn't my fault you told me.»
«Get out.»
«Brad, what about Priscilla?»
«Do anything you think fit. I leave it to you.»
«Aren't you coming over to see her?»
«Yes, yes. Later. Give her my love.»
Francis got as far as the door. I was still sitting and rubbing my eyes. Francis's funny bear face was all creased up with anxiety and concern and he suddenly resembled his sister, when she had become so absurd, looking at me tenderly in the indigo dark of our old drawing-room.
«Brad, why don't you make a thing of Priscilla?»
«What do you mean?»