He didn't like that, and remembered her tendency to grin during the hotel tea. 'Not at all. Take a look at Bertrand's ear before you start deciding who won and who lost.'

'Which one?'

'The right. But there probably won't be much to see. The damage was mostly internal, I should think.'

'Did you knock him over?'

'Oh yes, right over. He stayed down for a bit, too.'

'My God.' She stared at him, her full, dry lips slightly apart. A pang of helpless desire made Dixon feel heavy and immovable, as if he were being talked to by Welch. Then he felt that never had he been reminded so clearly of his first meeting with her as in the last couple of minutes, and glared at her.

At this moment of silence, Bertrand suddenly reappeared from behind the wife of one of the aldermen with a quick shuffling movement, rather like a left-arm bowler coming into a batsman's view round the umpire. His face was red; he was obviously almost beside himself with rage, either in its pure form or compounded with some other emotion. Carol followed him, looking inquisitive.

'That's enough of that,' Bertrand said, his voice a choking bay. 'This is just how I expected things to bam.' He caught hold of Christine's arm and pulled her away with some violence. Before moving off, he said to Dixon: 'Right, my lad. This is the finish for you. You'd better start looking for another job. I mean that.' Christine gave Dixon a brief, startled glance over her shoulder as she was virtually frog-marched towards the group that contained her uncle. Carol too looked at Dixon, a speculative look. Then she followed the other two. A loud homicidal-maniac laugh came from the Principal.

Dixon experienced a return of the ill feeling he'd had some minutes before. Then he found his thoughts being blindly swept along by panic. Bertrand must mean what he said; whatever it was that went on in Welch's head, the facts his son had to reveal must surely have a significant influence - and even if they didn't, there were his wife's contributions to add to the scale, that was if she hadn't added them already on her own initiative. Dixon realized he'd been wrong in thinking that the Bertrand-campaign was over and won; the last shot had still to be fired, and he was in the open and unarmed. What he'd warned himself of at the outset had really happened; he'd let himself be carried away, the joy of battle really had robbed him of his discretion and prudence. He was helpless; above all, helpless to prevent that bearded slob from standing there with his hand on Christine's arm, confident, proprietary, victorious. She stood by her boy-friend in an awkward, uncomfortable attitude, even an ungraceful one, but for Dixon's money there could be no more beautiful way for a woman to stand.

'Taking your last look, eh, James?'

At this sudden appearance of Margaret on his blind side, Dixon felt like a man fighting a policeman who sees another approaching on a horse. It dazed him. 'What?' he said.

'You'd better have a good look at her, hadn't you? You won't get another chance.'

'No, I don't suppose I…'

'Unless of course you've fixed it to run up to London every so often, just to keep in touch.'

Dixon stared into her face, genuinely surprised, surprised too that Margaret could, at this stage, do anything to surprise him. 'What do you mean?' he asked dully.

'No use pretending, is there? Doesn't take much imagination to see what you're thinking.' The tip of her nose wiggled slightly as she talked, in the way it always did. She stood with her feet apart and her arms crossed on her breast, as Dixon had seen her many times, making small-talk in this room or one of the little teaching-rooms upstairs. She didn't look at all strained, or excited, or ill-at-ease, or annoyed.

Dixon heaved a sigh of weariness before plunging in with the kind of protests and excuses laid down for him by the conventions of this particular pursuit. As he talked, he reflected how easily, by what deft sleight-of-hand, he'd been deprived of his one moral advantage in recent dealings with Margaret: his uninfluenced decision to take no more active interest in Christine. It was a bit rough to be reproached for hankering after what he'd voluntarily turned down. His spirits were so low that he wanted to lie down and pant like a dog: jobless, Christineless, and now grand-slammed in the Margaret game.

With no conclusion reached, their conversation was brought to an end by the drift of the Principal's group towards the door. Gore-Urquhart was apparently deep in talk with Bertrand and Christine. Welch called: 'Ready, Dixon?' With Mrs Welch at his side, he more than ever resembled an old boxer, given to a bit of poaching now and then, standing with his ex-kitchenmaid wife.

'See you in the Hall, Professor,' Dixon called back; then, with a word to Margaret, he hurried out and into the Staff Cloakroom. Stage-fright was upon him now; his hands were cold and damp, his legs felt like flaccid rubber tubes filled with fine sand, he had difficulty in controlling his breathing. While he was using the lavatory, he began making his Evelyn Waugh face, then abandoned it in favour of one more savage than any he normally used. Gripping his tongue between his teeth, he made his cheeks expand into little hemispherical balloons; he forced his upper lip downwards into an idiotic pout; he protruded his chin like the blade of a shovel. Throughout, he alternately dilated and crossed his eyes. Turning away, he found himself confronted by Gore-Urquhart, allowed his face to collapse, and said: 'Oh, hallo'.

'Hallo, Dixon,' Gore-Urquhart said, walking on past him.

Dixon went to the mirror above the wash-basin and examined his eye. It looked a good many shades brighter than he'd remembered it. In the circumstances, any attempt at smartness of clothes or hair seemed beside the point. He took from a shelf the stolen R.A.F. file that contained his lecture-script and was about to leave when Gore-Urquhart called: 'Hold on a minute, Dixon, will you?'

Dixon stopped and turned. Gore-Urquhart approached and stood gazing at him intently, as if planning a funny sketch of him, in charcoal, perhaps, or ink-wash, to be begun as soon as the lecture was over. After a moment, he said: 'Are you maybe feeling a little nervous, laddie?'

'Very nervous.'

Gore-Urquhart nodded and produced a sum but substantial flask from his ill-fitting clothes. 'Have a swig.'

'Thanks.' Deciding not to bother about coughing, Dixon took a good pull at what was evidently neat Scotch whisky - more evidently than any drink he'd ever had. He coughed wildly.

'Ah, it's good stuff, that. Have another swig.'

'Thanks.' Dixon did exactly as before, then, gasping and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, gave the flask back. 'I'm very grateful for that.'

'It'll do you a power of good. Out of my sherry-cask. Well, we'd best get along if we don't want to keep them waiting.'

The last stragglers were still leaving the Common Room and moving up the stairs. At the stairhead a little group was waiting: the Goldsmiths, Bertrand, Christine, Welch, Beesley, and the other lecturers in the History Department.

'We may as well go up the front, sir,' Bertrand said.

They began moving into the Hall, which was disconcertingly full. The front row of the gallery held an unbroken line of students. There was a loud mixture of conversations.

'Well, give it to them, Jim,' Carol said.

'All the best, old boy,' Cecil said.

'Best of luck, Jim,' Beesley said. They all moved away into their seats.

'Here you go then, laddie,' Gore-Urquhart said in an undertone. 'No need to worry; to hell with all this.' He gripped Dixon's arm and withdrew.

Aware that a shuffling for places was going on behind him, Dixon followed Welch on to the platform. The Principal and the fatter of the two aldermen were already there. Dixon found that he felt rather drunk.