She suddenly broke in again in her other manner, the one he associated with their phone conversation: 'No, I'm not going to try and get away with that. That's only a part of it. I don't see why I shouldn't tell you a bit more. I left because I was feeling absolutely fed-up with everything.'

'That's a bit sweeping. What had fed you up in particular?'

'Everything. I was absolutely fed-up. I don't see why I shouldn't tell you this. I've been feeling very depressed recently, and it all seemed to get too much for me tonight.'

'A girl like you's got no call to be depressed about anything, Christine,' Dixon said warmly, then at once fell against the window and banged his elbow smartly on the door as the taxi lurched aside in front of a row of petrol pumps. Behind these was an unlit building with a painted sign, faintly visible, reading Car's for hire - Batesons - Repair's. Dixon got out, ran to a large wooden door, and began to pound irregularly upon it, wondering whether, or how soon, to add shouts to his summons. While he waited, he ran over in his mind some handy all-purpose phrases of abusive or menacing tendency against the appearance of a garage-man unwilling to serve him. A minute passed; he went on thumping while the taxi-driver slowly joined him, his very presence a self-righteously pessimistic comment. Dixon laid down for himself the general lines of an appropriate face, involving free and unusual use of the lips and tongue and endorsed by manual gestures. Just then a light sprang up inside and very quickly the door was opened. A man appeared and declared himself able and willing to serve petrol. During the next couple of minutes Dixon was thinking not about this man but about Christine. He was filled with awe at the thought that she seemed, not only not to dislike him to any significant extent, but to trust him as well. And how wonderful she was, and how lucky he was to have her there. The admissions, the implied confessions about his feelings for her he'd made to Carol, had seemed outlandish at the time; now they seemed perfectly natural and just. The next half-hour or so formed the only chance he'd ever have of doing anything whatever about those feelings. For once in his life Dixon resolved to bet on his luck. What luck had come his way in the past he'd distrusted, stingily held on to until the chance of losing his initial gain was safely past. It was time to stop doing that.

Dixon paid the garage-man and the taxi moved off. 'You haven't any reason to be depressed, I was saying,' he said.

'I don't see how you can know that,' she said, severely again.

'No, of course I can't know it, but I shouldn't think you have too bad a time on the whole,' he said with an ease that surprised him. He could see that she needed time and encouragement to work back to her more open manner, and reflected that this sort of perception was as unfamiliar in him as all the other things he was feeling. 'I'd have put you down as somebody reasonably successful in most things.'

'I didn't mean to sound like a martyr. You're right, of course, I do have a good time and I've been very lucky in all sorts of ways. But, you know, I do find some things awfully difficult. I don't really know my way around, you know.'

Dixon wanted to laugh. He couldn't imagine any woman of her age less in need of such lore. He said as much.

'No, it's perfectly true,' she insisted. 'I haven't had a chance to find out yet.'

'You mustn't mind me saying this, but I should have thought there'd be plenty of people only too willing to show you.'

'I know, I see what you mean exactly, but they don't try to. They assume I know already, you see.' She was talking animatedly now.

'Oh, they do, do they? How's that, would you say?'

'I think it must just be because I look as if I'm full of poise and that sort of thing. I look as if I know all about how to behave, and all that. Two or three people have told me that, so it must be right. But it's only the way I look.'

'Well, it is true you look fairly sophisticated, if that's the right word. Even a bit upstage sometimes. But it…'

'How old would you say I am?'

Dixon thought an honest answer would, for once, be appropriate. 'About twenty-four, I should say.'

'There you are, then,' she said triumphantly. 'Just what I thought. I'm twenty next month. The eighteenth.'

'I didn't mean of course you didn't look very young as far as just your actual face goes, I just…'

'No, I know; but it's the age I seem, isn't it? It's the way I look, isn't it?'

'Yes, I suppose it is. But it isn't just that on its own, is it?'

'Sorry: what isn't what on its own?'

'I mean it's not just your appearance that makes you seem older and more experienced and all that. It's the way you behave and talk, a lot of the time, too. Don't you think so?'

'Well, it's awfully hard for me to tell, isn't it?'

'Must be, naturally. It's… you seem to… keep getting on to your high horse all the time; hard to describe it exactly. But you have got a habit, every now and then, of talking and behaving like a governess, though I don't know much about them, I must admit.'

'Oh, have I?'

Though the tone of this question illustrated just what he was talking about, Dixon, feeling it couldn't matter what he said, said: 'There, you're-doing it now. When you don't know what to do or say, you fall back on being starchy. And that all fits in with your face; that's probably what gave you the idea of being starchy in the first place, your face, I mean. And that makes a total effect of a prim kind of self-assurance, and you don't want to be prim but you do want to be self-assured. Yes… But that's quite enough of Uncle Jim's Corner. We're getting off the point. How does all this tie up with being depressed? There's still nothing to be depressed about.'

She hesitated while Dixon sweated slightly, repenting of his burst of old-trouper confidence, then she said with a rush: 'It's all to do with men, you see. I hadn't had much to do with men till I got my job in London last year… Look, you don't mind talking about me all the time, do you? It seems so self-centred. You don't think…?'

'You can forget all that. I want to hear about this.'

'All right, then. Well… I hadn't been working in the bookshop very long, when a man got talking to me and asked me to come to a party. So I went, of course, and there were a lot of artist kind of people there, and one or two ones from the B.B.C. You know the sort of thing?'

'I can imagine.'

'So… then it all started. I kept being asked out by men, and of course I kept going, it was such marvellous fun. And I still do enjoy it a great deal. But they kept… trying to seduce me the whole time. And I didn't want to be seduced, you see, and as soon as I'd convinced them of that, they were off. Well, I didn't mind that much, because there always seemed to be another one ready to…'

I'll bet there did. Go on.'

'I'm afraid this sounds terribly…'

'Go on.'

'Well, if you're quite sure… Anyway, after a few months of that I met Bertrand, that was in March. He didn't seem quite like the others, chiefly because he didn't start trying to make me be his mistress the entire time. And he can be very nice, you know, though I don't suppose you… After a bit the thing was, I was starting to get rather fond of him, and at the same time - this is the funny part - I was getting a bit fed-up with him in other ways while I was still getting more fond of him. He's such a queer mixture, you see.'

Naming to himself the two substances of which he personally thought Bertrand a mixture, Dixon said: 'In what way?'

'He can be extremely understanding and kind one minute, and completely unreasonable and childish the next. I feel I never know where I am with him, or what he really wants. Sometimes I think it's all to do with how he's getting on with his painting. Anyhow, what with one thing and another we started having rows. And I can't bear rows, especially because he was always putting me in the wrong by them.'