“Oh, it’s you, George,” he said with a kind of relief. Then for an instant, but it was only for an instant, George had the sense that the walls of reserve which always stood between him and his man were shifting, and he caught a glimpse of something—such painful love, such loneliness that he had instinctively lowered his own eyes. It was as if their positions had been exchanged and Cavan was the one who had a question he did not dare ask, and that he, George, had something to give. The deep-set blue eyes had looked out like an animal’s eyes, pleading, George did not know for what. Yes, it was like an animal imprisoned. And George had looked away, had said something unimportant about the last paper read at the seminar, as if deliberately to avoid a crisis he felt unable to meet. The whole thing took at most a minute. Then the student Cavan was waiting for turned up.

It was in fact such an intangible experience that George might have buried and forgotten it, if two days later this man had not chosen to do away with himself. Now George knew that he must live through that moment again and again, examine and re-examine it, search it for clues. He felt as if his head were bursting, but he forced himself to get up, forced his shaking hands to run water into a coffee pot, to wash the dirty cup and when, at last, he managed to drink the scalding stuff, he forced himself to shave, put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then, as if all this had banished the truculent terrifying stranger he had become, he made his bed and lay down on it, arms under his head, staring at the ceiling. What could I have done, he asked himself, if I’d known what to do? Nobody wants to look too deeply into an older person’s problems, especially into a teacher’s private problems. It seems slightly indecent. I suppose, George thought, he wanted something of me that he couldn’t ask, that I had to give. But I didn’t give it. It was too big; it upset my feelings about things. It broke down walls like breaking down houses. One couldn’t cope with such loneliness. I wanted his belief, not his love, his power, not his need. We’re all so scared of our feelings—there it was back again. The trap. The trap which had snapped shut on Edward Cavan. For Cavan had feeling, naked feeling, that was his greatness, what set him apart. It was also, George guessed, what tore him to pieces—had he thrown himself under that train out of self-loathing? Out of rage?