When he got back with the drinks, Mr. Blearney had launched into an anecdote that was not so much lengthy as proliferating: it branched out in so many directions, sprouted subsidiary anec­dotes by the dozen, and included an enormous amount of what historians of primitive epic describe as ‘episodic matter’. His talk was not boring, but even if it had been of unexampled brilliance Charles would not have listened. Under cover of the endless husky roar, he sipped his whisky and kept his eyes on the girl, more discreetly than when he had goggled so idiotically at her on their first encounter. She was sitting opposite him, flanked by the two men, so that Blearney’s whisky-laden monologue swirled round her like a heavy sea round a rock. She kept her eyes lowered, for the most part, listening with a quiet but genuine amusement. Once or twice she looked up and caught the eye of one or other of the three, as people do in general conversation, now Blearney’s, now her uncle’s, now Charles’s. It was impossible to decide which of the three she glanced at most frequently. Charles decided that probably, on a total count, Roderick would have been declared the winner. But when she looked at him, Charles, it was in quite a normal and friendly way, without the chill of her first response to his gaping. She was demure, her manner was not forward or even particularly open, but it was not cold.

He suddenly realized that he was drunk again. Was it the three whiskies on an empty stomach, or was it her presence? At any rate, as so often before, he knew that intoxication made it possible for him to act. Only when the higher centres, with their message of restraint and caution, were put out of action—only then could he dare. At lightning speed he revolved a number of possible openings. ‘Do you come here often?’ No, too silly. And she would just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, and then what? No, it was better to start from a more general angle. ‘I gather you don’t spend much time in Stotwell?’ Oh, so you gather, do you? Must have been prying into her affairs, asking people questions about her. That must go out. (He did not realize that this admission would have been something like the charming artless compliment he had wished for.) Well, what about leaving out the stuff about ‘gathering’, and simply saying, ‘Do you spend much time in Stotwell?’

He leaned forward. ‘Do you spend much time in Stotwell?’ he asked.