“Of course he has. He used to be uncompromising and militant—when that was the prevailing atmosphere. Now that the atmosphere is full of suspicion and doubt, he’s changed under it.”

“You suggest, my dear, that to change one’s mind is to betray. I cannot agree with you.”

“But one has to take a stand somewhere, Fosca—you must see that. There are some things about which one does not change one’s mind.”

“I wonder—faith has nothing perhaps to do with evidence, or with facts. Politics has everything to do with facts. Its essence is compromise, Edward. What frightens me a little is that you seem to have confused these categories. This is the mark of the true believer—and, alas, also the fanatic—No, don’t interrupt me,” Fosca said sternly, “you must let me say my say.” Edward sank back into his chair, his head in his hands. “In your real work, Edward, when it comes to literature, you have always exercised great intellectual control; you have exposed passion to the most delicate and severe investigation. You have been able to judge without ferocity, with real understanding. Why is it that here, in these matters of political belief, you cannot be dispassionate?”

“I’m not ashamed of being still an uncompromising Socialist,” Edward said quickly. “I’m not ashamed of having made a fool of myself in the Czechoslovakian affair, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

Somewhere under the words, Fosca could hear the prisoner tapping, but how, how to communicate with him, through the stone wall? At the moment, his only means was silence. He did not answer, carefully refilling his pipe, tapping down the tobacco, carefully and slowly lighting it, prolonging the pause on will. When Edward spoke again, he lifted his head and for just a second Fosca looked through the screen to the haunted eyes.

“I care too much,” he said angrily. “That’s what you’re saying. And it’s true of course.”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Fosca said gently. “I don’t know if that is just what I’m saying.”

“I have the sensation of screaming in a high wind,” Edward went on.

“I hear something else”—Fosca waited a second, then decided to say it aloud—“like a prisoner tapping against a wall——”

“I am in prison, Fosca. It’s true.” A moment before Fosca had thought that if he could bring Edward into this room, he could help him. Now he had the sensation that instead, it was he who had been locked into the prison with Edward. Edward walked again from the window to the desk, to the armchair where he had been sitting and back again. It was very like the walk of the great cats in zoos, back and forth, back and forth, his head down in his shoulders, his hands clenched in his pockets.