It had seemed then to Fosca that he had found a son, a most unexpected gift to an old man whose life was closing in on itself, rather than reaching outward. But now for some time, Edward had not been available, not in any deep sense. For one thing Fosca had watched him spend alarming amounts of time and energy in the Wallace campaign; he had watched him allowing himself to be sucked down into the whirlpool of politics, too involved, too passionately, to see clearly. And this had been painful to watch. How long was it since Edward had come to read poems and talk about them? Or to say, “Come for a walk, Orlando, we must look at the leaves before they are all gone.” That was the Edward who looked out from the photograph on the wall. On an impulse Fosca got up and took it down, to hold it in his hands a moment. It seemed almost incredible that Edward that day had laughed, for he was laughing at Damon who took the photograph. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the wind blowing his baggy tweed suit, his head bent a little, laughing. Eight, ten years ago? He had not been so angry, so difficult, so untouchable then. Then the various parts of his life had been harnessed together—the big book on the American roots in literature, the Teachers’ Union, just then being founded, the Radical Club of students where Edward felt so at home and at ease, the New Deal which seemed the very proof that at last the intellectual was to be assimilated into the political scene, used instead of isolated. In Edward, Fosca had thought he saw a new type emerging, an American type, which would perhaps come closer to the ideal of the whole man, totally responsible, than the world had yet seen. He smiled a slightly ironic, slightly weary smile as he put the little photograph back on its hook. And now? Now he must put water on to boil on the little electric range he had set up in the bathroom. Very carefully and precisely he set out two blue cups on a tray, brought the milk in from the window sill, sugar and spoons from a shelf under the range. Now it seemed to Fosca that this small act of kindness was all that he could do for Edward, that—and to listen.

The bell rang three times, short rings, Edward’s ring. Fosca heard his feet coming up the first flight, quickly, then slowing down, finally pausing at the door which Fosca flung open.

“Come in, come in, carissimo.” He shook Edward’s hand warmly, holding it a moment in his own, for Fosca was Latin enough still to make such natural gestures of love without embarrassment. Then he took Edward by the shoulder and said, “Sit down, make yourself comfortable, I have just started the coffee.”