When Randall spoke again however, although he did not open his eyes, his voice was clear and his tone positively careful, as of one who has for some time been thinking out what to say. What he did utter took Hugh's breath away. 'Are you sorry that you didn't go away with Emma in the old days?

Hugh was deeply shocked and immediately angry. He turned away again to the window and stood with his back to the room. The rain fell steadily, noisily, out of a dark reddish-blue sky.

Hugh's first feeling was of the unutterable impropriety of discussing his former mistress with his son. The shade of Fanny rose before him and his anger mingled with a deep painful distress. All this was nothing to do with Randall. But then at once he thought: yet it was, it is, to do with Randall. He knew about it, it must have some significance for him, some effect on him, since after all I am his father.

Randall then spoke again. 'Don't be angry. My imagination has worked on this matter. Inevitably. I couldn't not think about it.

This was true; and the word' imagination' suddenly touched Hugh to a further vision. What Randall had suffered as a child from what he could discover about his father's conduct Hugh would never know. But Randall as a man would have seen the thing with other eyes. He would have asked himself more objective questions. Randall the child had suffered from his father's temporary unfaithfulness; Randall the man must have meditated on the significance of his father's ultimate faithfulness. And it came to Hugh in a moment: he stands now where I stood then.

This, together with the tone of Randall's last remark, steadied Hugh, and he thought: he deserves the truth. Then he wondered: what is the truth? And before he could ponder further something wild and almost delighted in him spoke. 'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry. He turned— back to the room.

Randall was sitting up now, open-eyed, and as he surveyed his father he gave a sort of relieved sigh, such as an interrogator might give who has extracted the vital admission, perhaps in a garbled form, almost without the victim realizing it. There was another flash of lightning and the thunder nearer.

Hugh, his hands behind his back, looked at him for a moment with drooping head. As their eyes briefly met Hugh felt, almost shyly, the touch of an old deep attachment to his son. He felt too, as his gaze sought the Tintoretto, elderly and morose and sad.

Randall hitched himself up against the cushions, slopping his brandy, his legs stretched sideways on the sofa, his eyes fixed on his father. He said very softly, 'Thank yon. And then 'Shall I leave Ann?

Hugh turned away again with a gesture of irritation. He should not have let this conversation happen. It was totally unfair, and his own better judgement seemed to be deserting him to a degree which made him unfit to think about his own affairs, let alone anyone else's. He felt he had had his moment of irresponsibility and should now be left alone.

However, some urge which might have been as simple as curiosity made him say, 'You mean leave Ann — for Lindsay?

'Yes, said Randall slowly, still with the air of one choosing his words or giving vital instructions. 'Leave Ann completely and take Lindsay away, take her right away.

Something in the insistence struck Hugh and made him think; and there came to him a picture of the situation which he had already had in miniature, and which he had occasionally, as it were, popped out of his pocket to glance at guiltily. But now the picture presented itself to him blown up, huge, authoritative; and with its vast and as yet uncIarified implications it frightened him. If Randall abducted Lindsay, what would be left behind? A sad lonely defenceless Emma.

Hugh shook himself. He must close down this conversation. He felt a sort of panic, but managed to say coldly enough, 'Look, Randall, this is nothing to do with me. You really can't expect me to make comments or to encourage you. And now I think you'd better go.

Randall drew his legs towards him, curled gleaming-eyed in the comer of the sofa. He seemed powerful now, having got his foot through the door of his father's confidence. He said softly, 'So you think I should stay in the cage?

'I don't think anything about it one way or the other! said Hugh, flaring with anger. 'If the question is: ought you to leave Ann? The answer is no, and you know that as well as I do!

The rain drummed in the ensuing silence and the two men stared at each other.

Hugh was immensely affected' by the way Randall had put it.

Something in those words spoke so directly to him that he was immediately defensively angry as at a monstrously unfair appeal; though he could not at the moment see what had happened. Perhaps he was a little drunk too.

Randall said, holding his eyes, and with deliberation, 'But that is not the question.

Hugh's mind, working slowly, formulated what it had obscurely sensed a moment ago. It suddenly seemed to him intolerable that Randall should imagine that his father grudged him the freedom which he himself had not had the courage to take: that Randall should see him as enviously blocking the road, as unwilling to let his son have what he himself had failed to get, and which he had confessed to regretting. With what cleverness, it now occurred to him, had not Randall precisely made him confess it at the start of the conversation! The sense grew upon him of being interrogated, manipulated, and he felt both anger and curiosity, but with it still an overwhelming desire not to appear to Randall as an envious old man.

The lightning flickered again, and the thunder, still not very near.

The rain came down in thicker sheets, making the night darker. The reddish light was gone from the sky. Hugh said quietly, and giving conscious gaze for gaze, 'You know perfectly well that I don't necessarily think you should stay in the cage, as you put it. But why put it like that?

After a moment he turned away and went to the picture as to a shrine for refreshment. Randall's mention of a cage made him recall what he had only lately been thinking about his own astonishing sense of his freedom: and that in his heart which had replied so readily and so rashly to Randall's question about Emma now told him too that he wanted Randall to go. So far from grudging it to him, he wanted to see his son kick over the traces. And he wanted this, not for any possible advantage to himself: that existed too, but that was quite another matter. He desired, for its own sake, Randall's will to take what he wanted and damn the consequences. These were mad thoughts, but they rose with authority, and he knew that, quietly, they had been with him a long time.

'So you think I should go, then? said Randall behind him.

Hugh said impatiently, 'No, of course not. I don't think that either. Why do you press me for advice? You know perfectly well I can't give it. I can't make up your mind for you I'. He marched to the other end of the room. The lightning bashed more pale upon the dome, unnaturally close and clear, and lit up empty streets in other parts of London. It was very late. The rain seemed to, be abating a little. Hugh pulled the window up and let in a rush of warm fragrant air. He had no wish now to end the. conversation. With a curiosity which he felt to be depraved he wanted to hear what more his clever wicked son had to say.

'Can't you? said Randall. As Hugh turned again, he swung his legs off the sofa and reached out to help himself to more brandy. He sat a moment with head bowed looking into his glass. Then he said, 'I can't go, anyway. He drank some of the brandy and looked up at his father. 'Can I?

'What stops you?

'Money. Lack of'

Hugh wondered if he had seen this coming. No, he had not seen it coming. He was obtuse. He shrugged his shoulders and avoided Randall's eye. He felt that he was running helplessly to and fro before his son. He said, 'I can't discuss your plans, Randall.