It wasn’t until I’d reached Market Street that I remembered my appointment with Brown. For a moment I was tempted to tell the taxi driver to turn left for St. Clair Road; Brown after all had said that I didn’t have to go. And I didn’t want to see George Aisgill. We’d not spoken to each other for over ten years now, in­stinctively we’d avoided each other. There had been no agree­ment that it was better so, and no need for any agreement. Now we were going to break the silence. Now we were going to pre­tend that there never had been a silence, now we were going to be polite and friendly and sensible. I could manage that; I wasn’t the person who had fallen madly in love with Alice Aisgill eleven years ago. Madly in love; that had been the truth. I rubbed my eyes; they were smarting from lack of sleep. I didn’t want to meet him when I was tired, not fully in control of my wits or my temper; he would still have a sharp tongue, he would still have the ability to hurt me in some way or another. If we hadn’t spoken for ten years another day wouldn’t make any difference. I’d turn to the left up St. Clair Road, I’d turn into the road for home and for sleep.

And then as the taxi approached the traffic lights I knew it was futile, that there wasn’t any dodging the meeting; it wasn’t of my choosing, yet I had chosen it.

“Straight on,” I said. “Straight on and first to your right.”

When I got out of the taxi I looked at my watch. It was three minutes to nine. I put down my briefcase and pulled out my cigarette-case. I tapped the cigarette on the case, then took out my cigarette-lighter. What Alice used to call my Phileas Fogg fetish had hold of me; I like to keep appointments exactly on the hour, to enter when the clock is striking. I moved away from the entrance to look at an old election poster, even when you spin it out it doesn’t take much longer than fifteen seconds to take out a cigarette and light it. I looked at the poster for about thirty seconds then bent down as if to tie my shoe.

Brown’s Bentley drew up beside me. He didn’t look in my direction when he got out, but went round to open the passen­ger’s door. I straightened up, then bent down again as if to tie the other shoe. A minute to nine now; if he didn’t notice me I’d still be able to enter as St. Alfred’s struck the hour. It would be a tiny victory over him; and tiny victories mounted up.

But he’d seen me. “Looking for tab-ends, Joe?”