Presently the driver slid the glass aside and asked in a servile tone for more instructions, which Dixon gave. At last the taxi stopped at the end of the track that led up to the Welch house. Christine woke up and said after a moment: 'Are you coming up? I wish you would, because I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get in. The maid lives out, I think.'

'Of course I'll come up,' Dixon said. He settled a brief exchange with the taxi-driver by refusing to discuss the question of payment until the taxi should be standing outside his, Dixon's, digs, then went off into the darkness with Christine holding on to his arm like a staff.

XV

'I THINK we'd better look for a window first,' Dixon said as they stood in front of the darkened house. 'We don't want to ring the bell, just in case the Welches have got back before us. I don't suppose they'd want to be home very late.'

'Wouldn't they have to wait for Bertrand, because of the car?'

'They might have got a taxi; anyway, I'm not ringing that bell.'

They went off carefully into the yard at the left side of the building. In the darkness Dixon blundered into something which struck him dextrously on the shin and made him swear in a whisper. Christine laughed in a muffled way, as if her hands were over her mouth. By touch, and the sight which the minutes in the dark had given him, Dixon identified the hazard as a water-tap encased in planking which was split and half-shattered by some recent blow, as of an ill-driven car. He hummed a couple of bars of his Welch tune, then said to Christine: 'That'll do, that'll do. This looks like the french window; we'll just try that in case.'

He led the way, tip-toeing crunchingly, and found almost with foreboding that the window was not even latched. He hesitated before entering the room; the senior Welches might well be home already, and how was it possible for Welch not to have some imbecile hobby, watching phosphorescent mould, say, or Yogi meditation, which involved the use of a darkened room? He imagined with horror the dimensions and duration of Welch's wondering frown at the furtive entry of Christine and himself out of the darkness.

'Is it open?' Christine asked at his elbow. In whisper her voice had the same juvenile quality as he'd noticed over the phone.

'Yes, it seems to be.'

'Well, why not go in, then?'

'All right, here goes.' He pulled the window slowly open and stepped into the room past the floor-length curtain. All the others were apparently drawn and the room was like a sealed tank. He moved slowly forward, arms outstretched, until some piece of furniture dealt him the twin of the blow he'd just received. There was a weird moment when he and Christine reacted exactly as before. His hands hissed their way round two walls until he found the light-switch. 'I'm going to put the light on,' he said. 'All right?'

'Yes.'

'Right.' He snapped the switch down and instinctively turned away from it as the room sprang into light about them. His movement brought him very close to Christine. They looked at each other, both blinking and smiling; their faces were about on a level. Then the smile left her face and was replaced by a look as of anxiety. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth moved silently, she seemed to raise her arms. Dixon took the step that separated them, and then, very slowly at first to give her all the time she might need to step back and away, put his arms round her. She was breathing in when he finally secured his grasp and so at this she caught her breath. He kissed her for some seconds, not holding her too close; her lips were dry, and hard rather than soft; she felt very warm. At length she did step back. She looked an unlikely figure under the bright light; she might have been an effect of trick photography. Dixon felt as if he'd been running for a bus and had in addition been nearly knocked down by a car at the moment of boarding. He could only say: 'Well, that was very nice,' in a sort of wooden vivacity.

'Yes, wasn't it?'

'Worth coming back from the dance for.'

'Yes.' She turned away. 'Oh look, we're in luck. I wonder who thought of this.'

A tray with cups, a flask, and biscuits stood on a small round table. Dixon, who'd been showing a disposition to tremble and stagger, found his spirits abruptly kicking upwards at the sight; it meant he wouldn't have to leave for at least a quarter of an hour. 'I take that very kindly,' he said.

In a minute they were sitting side by side on the couch. 'I think you'd better drink out of my cup,' Christine said. 'We don't want anyone to know you've been here, do we?' She poured out some coffee and drank a little, then passed the cup to him.

Dixon felt that this intimacy somehow symbolized and crowned the whole evening. He remembered some Greek or Latin tag about not even God being able to abolish historical fact, and was glad to think that this must apply equally to the historical fact of his drinking out of Christine's coffee-cup. She took two biscuits when he offered them, which reminded him of how Margaret would never eat on this sort of occasion, as if making an easy claim to individuality, and in the same way always drank black coffee. Why? She wasn't trying to keep herself awake all the time, was she? It was nice, though, to be able to think of her without fear; he half-promised himself to send Gore-Urquhart a box of twenty-five Balkan Sobranie (Imperial Russian blend) for involuntarily engaging Margaret's attention at the dance and so making the taxi-stratagem conceivable. Then he abandoned these fancies, recognizing their origin as a desire to escape from the thought that he'd have to go on with this Christine business, he'd have to press his advantage if he wanted to retain what he already held. His sitting with her like this seemed to distil a domestic calm, but his heart beat uncomfortably. And yet he felt an undefined hope: he had no charts for these waters, but experience proved that it was often those without charts who got the furthest. 'I'm very fond of you,' he said.

He caught a glimpse of the starchier manner as she replied: 'How can you be? You hardly know me.'

'I know enough to be sure of that, thanks.'

'It's nice of you to say that, but the trouble is, there isn't much more to know than you know already. I'm the sort of person you soon get to the end of.'

'I don't believe you. But even if it were true I shouldn't care. There's more than enough to keep me going in what I've seen up to now.'

'I warn you it wouldn't do you any good.'

'Why not?'

'To start with, I can't get on with men.'

'What awful rubbish, Christine. Don't you go trying to spin me a hard-luck story like that. A girl like you could have any man she wanted.'

'The ones that want me don't stay about very long, as I told you. And it isn't easy to find one I want.'

'Ah, don't give me that. There are dozens of sensible men about. I can even think of a few in our Common Room. Well, one or two. Well, anyway…'

'There you are, you see.'

'Let's leave that,' Dixon said. 'Tell me: how long are you staying here this time?'

'For a few days. It's part of my holiday.'

'Grand. When can you come out with me?'

'Oh don't be such a fool, Jim. How can I possibly come out with you?'

'No trouble at all, Christine. You can make out you're out with Uncle Julius. From what I've seen of him he'd back up your story.'

'Don't say any more, it's no good. We're both tied up.'

'We can start worrying about that, if we've got to, when we've seen a little more of each other.'

'Do you realize what you're asking me to do? I'm a guest at this place, Bertrand asked me down here, and I'm his… I'm tied up with him. Can't you see yourself how mean it would be?'

'No, because I don't like Bertrand.'