“That’s more like it,” I said. I thought of what Susan’s help of Sybil had resulted in for me: ten days of snatch meals, ten days of listening to the account of the woes of Sybil either from Sybil herself or from Susan; ten days of having the Pudding-Faced Bawl­ers in and out of the house. . . .

Mark poured out two big measures of whisky. “You won’t have had a very comfortable time of it lately,” he said, as if read­ing my thoughts. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s pointless to worry about it now,” I said.

“I’ve been a fool,” he said. “I really have. But you need a change after ten years. Just a change, that’s all. Believe me, I love my wife.”

It was obvious that he didn’t; he uttered the words very quickly and on his face for the first time in our acquaintance I saw a genuine guilt.

“Women don’t really understand,” I said.

“Too true. But you’ve got to have them.” He took a gulp of whisky. “You’re a good type, Joe, but maybe you don’t under­stand either. Lucy’s a silly little bitch – but she – she renewed my youth.”

He sat down astride his chair, one hand on its back. It was a musical comedy pose, the way the handsome Hussar sits in the tavern scene; it was not the sort of pose, I thought, that I could get away with.

“You can spend the whole of your life not doing things you want to do, then suddenly you’re old. Children are great fun when they’re young, but they don’t stay young. And you don’t do things you want to do for the sake of the children, and then you find out that they don’t care. They only care about leaving you as soon as they can. You’ve got to have them if you’re normal, if only because women turn queer if they don’t give suck. But don’t love them too much.”

“You can’t avoid it,” I said.

“You have to avoid it,” Mark said. He emptied his glass. “Help yourself, Joe, it’s the only cure for what ails us.” He refilled his glass.