«There may be no direct flight at once, if there isn't book us through Milan.»

«And I'll get some maps and guide-books, we'll need a map of the city, won't we?»

«Yes, yes.»

«Make me a cheque then, Brad. Here's your cheque book. Make it out to 'bearer' and I can take it to your bank. Make it a big one, Brad, so I can book us the best way. And Brad, would you mind, I haven't any clothes, it'll be hot there, won't it, do you mind if I buy some summer clothes, I haven't a thing?»

«Yes. Buy anything. Buy the guides and a map, that's a good idea. And go to the publisher. Yes, yes.»

«Can I buy you some things, you know, a sun hat or a dictionary or anything?»

«No. Go quickly. Here.» I gave him a large cheque.

«Oh thanks, Brad! You stay here and rest. I'll be back. Oh how exciting! Brad, do you know, I've never been to Italy, ever at all!»

When he had gone I went into the sitting-room. I had a blessed purpose now, an objective, a place in the world where she might be. I ought to be packing a suitcase. I felt incapable of doing so. Francis would pack my case. I felt faint with longing for Julian. I still held her letter in my hand.

In the bureau bookcase opposite to me were the love poems of Dante. I pulled them out. And as I touched the book I felt, so strange is the chemistry of love, that my embroiled heart was furthering its history. I felt love now in the form of a sort of divine anger. What I was suffering for that girl. Of course I would love my pain. But there is a rich anger which is bred so, and which is of the purest stuff that love is ever made of. Dante, who spoke his name so often and suffered so at his hands, knew that.

S'io avessi le belle trecce press, che fatte son per me scudiscio e ferza, pigliandole anzi terza, con esse passerei vespero e squille: e non sarei pietoso ne cortese, ami farei com' orso quando scherza; e se Amor me ne sferza, io mi vendicherei di piu di mille.

Ancor ne It occhi, and' escon le faville che m'infiammono il cor, ch'io porto anciso, guarderei presso e fiso, per vendicar lo fuggir che mi face: e poi le renderei con Amor pace.

I was lying face downwards on the floor, holding Julian's letter and the Rime together against my heart, when the telephone rang. I staggered up amid black constellations and got to the instrument. I heard Julian's voice.

No, it was not her voice, it was Rachel's. Only Rachel's voice, in emotion, horribly recalling that of her daughter.

«Oh-« I said, «Oh-«, holding the telephone away from me. I saw Julian in that second in a jagged explosion of vision, in her black tights and her black jerkin and her white shirt, holding the sheep's skull up before my face.

«What is it, Rachel, I can't hear?»

«Bradley, could you come round at once.»

«I'm just leaving London.»

«Please could you come round at once, it's very, very urgent.»

«Can't you come here!»

«No. Bradley, you must come, I beg you. Please come, it's something about Julian.»

«Rachel, she is in Venice, isn't she? Do you know her address?

I've had a letter from her. She's staying with a fan of Arnold's. Do you know? Have you got an address book of Arnold's you could look it up in?»

«Bradley, come round here at once. It's very-important. I'll tell you everything-you want to know-only come-«What is it, Rachel? Rachel, is Julian all right? You haven't heard anything awful? Oh God, have they had a car accident?»

«I'll tell you everything. Just come here. Come, come, at once, in a taxi, every moment matters.»

«Rachel, is Julian all right?»

«Yes, yes, yes, just come-I paid the taxi with trembling hands, dropping the money all over the place, and ran up the path and began banging on the knocker. Rachel opened the door at once.

I hardly recognized her. Or rather, I recognized her as a portentous revenant, the weeping distraught figure of the beginning of the story, her face grossly swollen with tears and, it seemed, again bruised, or perhaps just dirtied as a child's may be after much rubbing away of tears.

«Rachel, there's been a car accident, they've telephoned, she's hurt? What's happened, what's happened?»

Rachel sat down on a chair in the hall and began to moan, uttering great terrible ringing moans, swaying herself to and fro.

«Rachel-something terrible has happened to Julian-what is it? Oh God, what has happened?»

Rachel got up after a moment or two, still moaning and supporting herself against the wall. Her hair was a thick tangled frizzy mass, like the hair of the insane, torn at and dragged across her brow and eyes. Her mouth, all wet, was open and shuddering. Her eyes, oozing great tears, were slits between the swollen lids. Laboriously, like an animal, she pushed past me, still leaning with one hand on the wall, and made her way towards the door of the drawing-room. She pushed it open and made a gesture forward. I followed her into the doorway.

Arnold lay sideways, his knees up, one hand palm upward extended towards my foot. His eyes were half closed, showing a glint of white eyeball, his teeth were gritted together and the lips slightly withdrawn from them as if in a snarl. There was blood caking his pale tossed hair and dried in marbled patterns on his cheek and neck. I could see that the skull was appallingly dinted at the side, the darkened hair descending into the depression, as if Arnold's head had been made of wax and someone had pressed strong fingers hard in. A vein at the temple still oozed a little.

A large poker was lying on the carpet where the blood was. The blood was red and sticky, the consistency of custard, skinning a little on the surface.1 touched, then held, Arnold's tweedy shoulder, warm with the sun, trying to stir him a little, but he seemed as weighty as lead, bolted to the floor, or else my trembling limbs had no strength. I stepped back with blood upon my shoes, and trod upon Arnold's glasses which were lying just beyond the circle of blood.

«Oh God-you did that-with the poker-She whispered, «He's dead-he must be-is he?»

«I don't know-Oh God-«He's dead, he's dead,» she whispered.

«Have you sent for the-Oh Christ-what happened?»

«I hit him-we were shouting-I didn't mean-then he started screaming with pain-I couldn't bear to hear him screaming like that-I hit him again to stop him screaming-«We must hide the poker-you must say it was an accident-Oh what shall we do-He can't be dead, he can't be-«I kept calling him and calling him and calling him, but he wouldn't move.» Rachel was still whispering, standing in the doorway of the room. She had stopped crying and her staring eyes seemed larger and wider, she kept rubbing her hands rhythmically upon her dress.

«He may be all right,» I said. «Don't worry. Did you ring the doctor?»

«He's dead.»

«Did you ring the doctor?»

«No.»

«I'll get the doctor-And the police-I suppose-And an ambulance-Tell them he fell and hit his head or something-Oh Christ-I'll take the poker away anyhow-Better say he hit you and-«

I picked up the poker.1 stared for a moment at Arnold's face. The sightless eye-glint was terrible. I felt sick urgent panic, the desire to hand this nightmare over as quickly as possible to somebody else. As I moved towards the door I saw something on the floor near Rachel's feet. A screwed-up ball of paper. Arnold's writing. I picked it up and brushed past her where she still stood leaning in the doorway. I went out into the kitchen and put the poker down on the table. The ball of paper was Arnold's letter to me about Christian. I took out a box of matches and began to burn the letter in the sink. It kept falling into a basin of water since my hands would not obey me. When at last I had reduced it to ashes I turned the tap on it. Then I started washing the poker. Some of Arnold's hair was stuck to it with blood. I dried it and put it away in a cupboard.