One of the corners of the common room had been made into a library. High shelves separated it from the living part of the room. Paul Derbyshire was sitting there, turning the accounts into a precise statement of the financial position of the observatory, into an account so simple, he told himself, that even that blockhead Charles Todd will understand it. At first the raised voices in the common room merely irritated him. His powers of concentration were intense and he was able to continue with his work. Occasionally the deep, personal anxiety which haunted him like a recurring nightmare intruded, and then he was miserable, momentarily distracted, but he was not aware of the argument beyond the bookcase. When he had finished the accounts, however, he found that he was in an embarrassing position. He wanted to go to see Charlie. That was immensely important. He was quite sure that he would make Charlie see sense. About everything. Although he had not been listening to the argument outside he had heard enough to realize that Pam Marshall and Jerry Packham were discussing a matter of extreme delicacy. He wished that he had been aware of the nature of the conversation earlier, so that he could have taken more notice of what was being said. If he emerged from the library now, they would wonder why he had not made his presence known before. Now he could only wait for the row to end and the protagonists to leave. This he did with some impatience.

Little of interest was being said. Pamela was hurling abuse and recrimination, and Jerry was fending it off. At last the argument reached a crescendo. Pamela shouted: “You’re so bloody spineless, Jerry. If you haven’t got the nerve to do it, I have,” and he heard the sound of footsteps and the slam of the door. Soon after Jerry left too, and the doctor heard the door shut gently behind him. Paul Derbyshire gathered together his papers, unwilling now to face the task ahead of him, then he sighed and went to find his coat.

Charlie Todd sat in his rocking chair in the tidy, doll’s-house living room. He was feeling pleased with himself. His visitors that evening had made him feel important. He supposed that eventually he would have to think about what had been said. He had promised, after all, to think about it. He did not want to be unkind. He remembered the hostile faces around the supper table. He was genuinely surprised by the reaction to his news, but he was determined to have his own way. He would be sorry to leave this house, but his room on the boat would be very similar to this room. He lay back in his chair and fell asleep.

John did not know how long he had been sitting, looking out over the sea, when Elizabeth found him. In her torch light she looked untamed, distraught. Her long hair was tangled. There was mud and sand on her shoes and her jeans. How different she looked, he thought, from that day when we first met. She’s like the lady who joined the raggle-taggle gypsies. Will she leave me, he thought, if I cannot find her somewhere wild and dramatic to live? If I have to get a real job, and a house on an estate and a mortgage, will she still love me?