It came back to me now; I’d heard it at second hand through Eva Storr, who still was the clearing-house for all Warley scandal. There’d been a mild stink about it; in a watered-down version and naming no names it had even reached the local Press. Brown had cleared it up of course; I suppose the Editor was gently re­minded of the political affiliations of the Clarion Group’s prin­cipal stockholders. At the time I hadn’t been anything else but mildly amused by Harry Runcett’s outburst, if you could call it an outburst. Now, driving along Hawcombe Main Street in the rain I knew what the cat was. And it wasn’t a tom. It was a neuter, a big fat neuter, that always did just whatever its father-in-law told it to do.

I put my foot down and the Zephyr gathered speed up the slope. The sooner I was home, the sooner it was over with; the speedometer crept up to sixty. Then I was over the crest of the hill and I could see Warley; despite myself I began to feel more cheer­ful. The day was behind me and Leddersford hidden be­hind Hawcombe Hill; before me was Forest Road and the river. I slowed down and opened the window to let in the rain and the smell of the forest. And as always, even now when I didn’t dare hope for it, there came the quietness, the palpable dark green quietness. There was no reason for it; the road was a short one running through the narrowest part of the forest, with the town in full view over Forest Bridge. There was no reason for it, but it was there, there so strongly this evening that for a moment I was tempted to stop the car and for the duration of a cigarette sit quietly with the quietness.

I changed down into second; then changed up again; what I wanted to do was innocent and harmless and utterly impossible. I could hear the voices now as I crossed the bridge and turned into Market Street; he’s drunk, of course, they said. Why else, my dear? Why should he stop so near home? Trying to sober up, frightened to go home. . . . Or meeting someone . . . that’s more likely.

That was exactly how they’d chatter on; I’d heard those voices before. The three sets of lights in Market Street were each against me; at the third set, before St. Clair Road, the car in front of me stalled and I missed the green. The voices went on to other sub­jects; as I waited there I wondered if there ever had been a time when they hadn’t ruled my life.

I didn’t tell Susan about my trip to London until after dinner. I didn’t admire myself very much for putting it off; but that day I seemed to have used up my small stock of courage. It was rather like being in the R.A.F. again; every day one was forced to do something one didn’t want to do, every day one was tested, the men were separated from the boys. I was sick to death of it, I’d proved myself often enough, I only wanted to sit back in my arm­chair and sip my coffee and let my meal digest, I only wanted to live in the present.