Rosa! As he sat, empty glass in hand, staring across at the bag on the counter, he knew suddenly and finally that it was over. He would never give anything to Rosa now, not even himself, because he was not his own to give. Another whisky. Thoughts of Veronica ebbed away. That was over too, there must never be any thoughts of her again. He did not, ultimately, want any. If she came in now, into this very bar, he would go out by another door without speaking to her, without letting her see him even. He was broken. The wheels had passed over him. This latest dream, of peace in a smoky brown house, he now recognized for what it was. A stage in his recovery. Recovery meant nothing but coming to terms with your illness, gauging accurately the extent to which you had been maimed. He did not want Rosa, he did not want Veronica, he wanted nothing.

‘Snap out of it. Bloody self-pity,’ he said, going out into the street.

‘That’s over, anyhow,’ he said, walking into another pub a few yards away.

‘Just a freak,’ he said into his glass of stout. ‘Tricks you play on yourself.’

‘Say something, mate?’ said a man in a muffler, leaning across.

‘No. Just catgut. I’ve got the catgut,’ he said, standing up to go. ‘That’s all I came in for, to leave the catgut.’

He went out.

‘No good fooling yourself,’ he said to the lamp-post.

And I a twister love what I abhor. And buy a hoar love twisting what and eye. Oh, shut up, shut up.

‘Still by yourself, dear?’ asked the tart, coming up to him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’m staying like that.’

‘No offence, dear,’ she said.

‘No offence,’ he said.

‘About that job, Mr. Braceweight,’ he said. ‘If you haven’t filled it yet, I could take it, as things have turned out.’

‘You won’t be getting married just yet, then?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘You realize you’ve accepted the job without asking me any­thing about pay or hours?’ Mr. Braceweight asked, pained; it was obviously very hard for him to get used to anyone like Charles.

‘Was that so very improvident of me? Remember I’ve seen a lot of you during the time you’ve been here, enough to feel sure that you’re not a man who underpays his employees. Sir,’ he added, feeling that relations between them would obviously have to become more formal soon, and the sooner the better. He liked Mr. Braceweight, and for a moment, once, they had approached something like confessional intimacy. But instinct warned him to shy away from the complicated relationship that would result from any attempt to mix the employer and the friend. He must fend off any sign of the paternal.