“My dear, I’m so sorry. But you’re not doing yourself any good by running away from it. And it’s futile to abuse me. Or Abe either. I didn’t come down here to hurt you any more.”

“You can’t,” I said. “Nobody can. You can’t hurt me any more. Barbara—”

As I pronounced the name I found myself beginning to cry. “I can’t see Barbara again; I can’t see Barbara again. And if I can’t see her I can’t see my son. There isn’t anything left.”

“Susan told me everything,” she said.

“She didn’t have to.”

Suddenly I felt scruffy and defeated, a fat unshaven cuckold weeping in his dressing-gown. I pulled my hand away.

“I’ll shave if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’m sorry you should see me like this.”

“You needn’t be,” she said. “I’ve seen men unshaven before.”

I plugged in the electric razor.

“She told you everything?”

“She confirmed everything.”

I put the razor down.

“Ah God, how you must have gloated! Seeing me with his daughter—”

“Stop it. She isn’t his daughter. You might as well say that Harry’s his son. There’s more to having children than begetting them.”

I sat down beside her again. She put out her hand; I grasped it tightly, not out of affection, not out of desire, but out of the need to reassure myself of the presence of another human being.

“I can’t think what you mean,” I said. “Nothing makes sense any more. Is Barbara or is she not Mark’s daughter?”

“You know him, don’t you? He isn’t bad, I never thought that, but he isn’t good either. He’s not unlike you in some ways, but he’s never had your advantages.”

“My advantages? A back street in Dufton? Dufton Grammar School? I’ve had to sweat for everything I’ve got. He’s the one who’s had the advantages.”

“I mean what I say. You could only go up; but when Mark’s father lost all his money Mark could only go down.”

I grimaced. “You’re really saying that my beginnings were so low that any change was a change for the better.”

“You’re ridiculously touchy. Mark was spoiled when he was young, everything came too easily. You’ve learned to depend upon yourself. For that matter, you’ve had a far happier child­hood than Mark ever had. I knew his father. He was a very bad man, and I’m not saying that lightly.”

“I don’t care about his early sufferings,” I said. “You haven’t come here to tell me about that, have you?”

“Early sufferings is accurate enough,” she said. “But of course I don’t expect you to care.”

“Something’s happened,” I said. “Someone’s told him, haven’t they?”