“It’d be a shame not to go now,” I said. “We don’t often get the chance to go out together.”

“Have you just found that out?” She lit a cigarette. I noticed that the ashtray on her dressing-table was full. She’d switched to Turkish cigarettes recently; the bedroom was full of their heavy odour.

“You’re smoking too much,” I said.

“Mind your own business.”

“It is my business.” A thought struck me. “I hope you don’t smoke in bed when I’m away.” She had always been used to ser­vants picking things up after her, tidying up her messes, empty­ing ashtrays, switching off lights and gas taps. And emptying ash­trays; I smelled the burning cotton bedspread, I heard a child screaming, saw a small charred body. Suddenly I hated Susan. “You don’t realize how easily it can happen,” I said. “Barbara—”

She turned round to face me. “Shut up,” she said. “Or I won’t go.”

“Please yourself,” I said. “It was only for your sake.”

“Only for my sake! Do you know how many evenings you’ve been in this week? Not one. You’re out every damned night. Council meetings, Party meetings, the Thespians – you come home, you shovel your food down, you say good night to Bar­bara, and then you’re off. Why do you bother to come home at all?” She started to brush her hair again, so savagely that I would not have been surprised to see it lit up with electric sparks.

“Leave it,” I said. “Let it ride. I must do these things. Don’t let’s argue.”

“No, we mustn’t argue. We must just do what you want. My father matters to you more than I do. Even George Aisgill mat­ters more than I do. And more than the children do. Yes, George Aisgill matters more to you than even your daughter whom you claim to love so much. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“Oh God!” I said. “It’s a month ago.”

“You come back after two days in London. A trip which you said you made with the greatest reluctance. A tiring trip. A stren­uous trip. A boring trip. You’d think that any normal man would want to come straight home to his wife and children. But not you. My father wants you to meet him at the Conservative Club. Off you go, tired though you are. But that’s not enough. You still can’t go home. It’s too early. You go to George Aisgill’s house and sit up boozing till midnight.”

“Look, we can’t go into that again. I’ve said I was sorry—”

“George Aisgill, of all people. You’ve managed not to talk to him for ten years. Couldn’t you keep it up? What was it you had to talk about? It was Alice, wasn’t it?”