Outside he found himself shivering. It was over a mile and a half to his rooms, but he set out walking without even giving it thought, going faster and faster, oblivious of people passing him or the clatter and light in the gloom of carriages. It was only as he was crossing Piccadilly that he realized he did not really want to go home. He did not want to spend the rest of the evening alone with his thoughts.

He stopped abruptly on the curb and swung around, ready to hail the nearest cab. He climbed in and directed it to take him to Primrose Hill.

When he arrived Henry Rathbone was sitting by the fire with his slippers off, toasting his feet, sucking absentmindedly on an empty pipe, and deep in a book of philosophy, with which he profoundly disagreed. But its arguments were exercising his mind, which he enjoyed enormously. Even losing his temper in such an abstract way was a form of pleasure.

However, as soon as Oliver came in he realized that something was wrong. It did not require a great deal of deduction, since Oliver had left his hat at Laurence's, his gloves were still stuffed in his pockets and his hands were red with cold. It was now pitch-dark, and chilly enough to suspect frost.

Henry had, of course, followed the case and knew of the latest tragic developments. He stood up and regarded Oliver gravely, holding his pipe in his hand.

"Has something happened?" he asked.

Oliver ran his fingers through his hair, something totally uncharacteristic. He loathed looking untidy; it was almost as bad as being unclean.

"Not really, at least nothing in the Melville case," he answered, taking off his coat and handing it to the manservant waiting at his elbow. "I went to a dinner party this evening and lost my temper."

"Seriously, I presume." Henry nodded to the manservant, who disappeared, closing the door silently. "You look cold. Would you like a glass of port?"

"No!" Oliver declined. "I mean, no thank you. It was during the port that I told them they were hypocrites and bigots who were responsible for the ruin of a genius like Melville." He sat down in the other chair, opposite his father, watching his face to see his reaction.

"Unwise," Henry answered, resuming his own seat. "What are you doing now, thinking how to apologize?"

"No!" The reply was instant and sincere.

"Are they responsible?"

Oliver calmed down a little. "They, and people like them, yes."

"A lot of people ..." Henry gazed at him very levelly.

Oh'ver's temper had worn itself out and left not a great deal but sadness and a growing feeling of his own guilt.

"You are not responsible for society's attitudes," Henry said, knocking out his pipe, forgetting there was nothing in it.