Edward was sitting up in bed now. His hair was ruffled into a kind of crest, making him look like an alertly impudent bird. He asked, smiling:

“And supposing I don’t? What shall you do?”

Eric answered gravely:

“I can’t do anything.”

“You could tell Mary, for instance, what you think.”

“She wouldn’t understand.”

There was a long silence. Edward smoked, smiling faintly to himself. At length he asked:

“I suppose, Eric, I’m the wickedest person you’ve ever met?”

“I don’t think you’re wicked. I think you’re weak.”

Edward grinned broadly.

“You don’t blame me too much?”

“I don’t blame you at all. What you d-do is no affair of mine.”

“So long as it doesn’t affect Maurice?”

“Yes.”

“But tell me, Eric—this interests me. If I’m not wicked, I suppose you think I’m really a bit mad?”

Eric felt himself go scarlet. He said confusedly:

“I know you had a very bad time in the War.”

“So did others.”

Eric was silent.

“You think it’s about time I pulled myself together?”

“At least”—Eric did not mean it unkindly—“you could make an effort.”

Rather to his surprise, Edward smiled:

“Yes, the War’s getting a bit old as an excuse now, isn’t it?”

Edward dropped the stump of his cigarette into the coffee-cup. Added:

“Well, I’m afraid I can hardly promise to reform myself. But I’ll do my best to keep clear of Maurice. Will that satisfy you?”

“If you really mean what you say.”

“I give you my word of honour. But, of course, I forgot. I haven’t any, as far as you’re concerned.”

Eric did not reply. Edward continued in a different tone:

“Eric, your father was the only real friend I’ve ever had. It seems rather silly that we should be enemies.”

“I’m not your enemy.”

Edward made a grimace.

“I’m afraid that’s not saying very much, is it? Well I, at any rate, rather admire you.”

“I d-don’t want your admiration!” exclaimed Eric in a loud, childish voice. He had risen to his feet. Trembling, furious with himself, he knew that in a moment he would burst into tears. “I m-must be g-going,” he muttered. Gathering his books and gown, he made blindly for the door.

“Good-bye,” Edward called after him. “And thanks for waking me up.”

*   *   *

That evening Margaret was in her studio. There was a terrific postman’s knock.

“Thank God, you’re in.”

“Why, Edward, whatever’s the matter?”

He stumbled across the room, collapsed on the divan like a sack. He looked up at her slowly, with an uncertain grin:

“Don’t get the wind up. I’m only a bit tight.”

Margaret thought that he looked much worse than tight. She said briskly, in a voice she hadn’t often used since Red Cross days during the War: