No, George turned over on his stomach pressing his head down into his hands to shut out the image. It was too violent an image, it had no reality. It was quite impossible for him to put it beside the Cavan he knew. He could meet this reality at present only with revolt—it had to be shut out, thought away. The message found on Cavan’s desk had said something about “the state of the world.” But when they sat in Albiani’s and Cavan had tried to talk, how could George know how serious the whole matter was? Was this preoccupation with politics Cavan’s strength or was it his weakness? Was it strong to take an absolute stand which proved in the end untenable in relation to the facts? Or was it fatal weakness? Oh, if only I could have asked him more, tried to understand, George groaned. How would he ever find his way out through the maze of questions now? Who could help? Everything had become nothing, for the pivot which held it all together was gone. The world had broken in two, not Edward Cavan. Edward Cavan was intact. He had let himself be savaged by an elevated train to remain intact, leaving the world all breaking to pieces, leaving the loneliness inside everyone else, the awful, bitter sense of failure and guilt inside everyone else. We can’t get through to him now; we can’t share the burden whatever it was. It’s too late.

This time George answered the phone. It was a woman’s voice he heard. The last thing he wanted was to cope with a woman.

“This is Miss Kimlock,” the voice said. Then there was silence.

“Yes,” George said cautiously. He hadn’t an idea who she might be.

“I’ve been trying to get you all morning.” She sounded quite cross.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t answering the phone.” Kimlock? Kimlock? A relative of one of his students? “What can I do for you?”

“I want to talk to you. I’m a friend of Edward’s …” George felt the silence growing like a paralysis.

“Oh.”

The silence was there again. How did one stop a silence?

“I just can’t talk.” He hung up the receiver. It was brutal but he had to do it. I just can’t talk, he said again. They can’t make me. They think I have feelings because they do. They don’t know about the trap. Pen—the remembrance flashed through him like a wound—saying after he kissed her that she didn’t want to feel so much. Cavan throwing himself under a train. The loneliness. No way out. “Edward?” George laughed a harsh laugh. “He wasn’t Edward to me, Miss Kimlock. He was Professor Cavan. Get that? Professor. I can’t help you”—George said all this aloud to the empty room—“you’ve got to help yourself. He was no friend of mine.”