People didn’t live in Earl’s Court; they stayed here for a while and moved on, as Norah and I would soon move on. And they came here to hide. I was hiding from my wife, I was hiding from my father-in-law, I was hiding, above all, from a four-year-old child.

Reaching in my dressing-gown pocket for cigarettes my hand encountered the letter which, from the Warley postmark and the heavy spiky writing I knew to be from my father-in-law. It had been there for ten days now; and for ten days the mere act of taking it out and returning it unopened had been an unfailingly effectual reminder of the completeness of my severance from Capua. This was Norah’s name for Warley; it now came abso­lutely naturally to our lips. Like the Roman town, Capua was a place where one led a life of luxury and ease, a place where every­one had sold out. One didn’t open letters from Capua, espe­cially when they were certain to be full of abuse. Silence and indif­ference was the only answer to letters from Capua.

I put my finger under the flap of the envelope nevertheless and then, realizing what I was about to do, tore it across and set fire to it with my cigarette-lighter. When the letter had burned away it occurred to me that I’d made a mistake; I was the only one to see the letter burnt unopened. It would have annoyed him more if I’d posted it back to him. To burn it was too ceremonious. It attributed too great an importance to him and to Capua.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a large whisky. As I raised it to my lips I saw the pattern of the whole day unfold itself before me. As I always did, now at this time I would have this one drink, no more; I would dress, I would walk to Earl’s Court Tube station, I would have a cup of tea at the ABC or Lyons, I would take the Tube to Leicester Square, I would go down Bed­ford Street to the Strand, I would walk along the Strand to Fleet Street, looking at the shops on the way. I would go into Poppins at half past eleven and sit in the corner by the stair­case waiting for Norah. I would drink three pints of bitter before she came at half past twelve; we would have lunch and then I would go to a matinée and return to collect her at about half past five.

Today we were lunching at the Cock where we might possibly run across Nick Halberton, a friend of hers who might know of a suitable job for me. I wouldn’t have to commit myself, of course, but Nick was a very useful man to know. You mustn’t drift, darling. . . .