When Andersen came down, his hair was freshly washed and still wet at the ends and his light skin had been reddened by the day’s sun. He smiled and made himself comfortable and sipped a drink and slowly examined the garden as though he had not seen it before. Henry had previously indicated the garden room to him as the place where he worked in the summer, but had not as yet invited him into the room. When he did so now, they walked slowly, drinks in hand, across the lawn.

‘This is where all your work is done,’ Andersen said when Henry had closed the door behind them.

‘This is where the tales are told,’ Henry said.

To the left of the entrance there was a wall of books, and when Andersen had studied the view and marvelled at the light, he walked over to inspect the books, not appearing to realize at first that all of them bore his host’s name. He took down one or two and then gradually it seemed to dawn on him that this large high bookcase contained the novels and stories of Henry James in all their editions from both sides of the Atlantic. He became agitated and excited as he took volumes down and looked at the spines and the title pages.

‘You have written a whole library,’ he said. ‘I will have to read them all.’

He turned and looked at Henry.

‘Did you always know that you would write all these books?’

‘I know the next sentence,’ Henry said, ‘and often the next story and I take notes for novels.’

‘But did you not once plan it all? Did you not say this is what I will do with my life?’

By the time he asked the second question, Henry had turned away from him and was facing towards the window with no idea why his eyes had filled with tears.

WHEN THEY HAD talked for a while after supper, Henry went to bed leaving Andersen downstairs reading one of his collections, insisting that he would finish at least a substantial number of the stories before he left Rye the next day. After a time he heard the stairs creak and he began to imagine Andersen’s tall frame, book in hand, arriving on the landing; he pictured him opening his door and going into his bedroom. Soon, he heard him cross the landing to go to the bathroom and then return to the bedroom and close the door.

As the floorboards creaked under Andersen’s feet, Henry imagined his friend undressing, removing his jacket and his tie. And then he heard only silence as perhaps Andersen sat on the bed to remove his shoes and his socks. Henry waited, listening. And now after an interval came further creaks as, Henry surmised, he must have been removing his shirt; he dreamed of him standing bare-chested in the room, and then reaching to find his night attire. Henry did not know what Andersen would do now. He wondered if he would not remove his trousers and his underwear and stand naked studying himself in the mirror, looking at how the sun had marked his neck, observing how strong he was, staring at the blue of his own eyes, not making a sound.

And then he heard another creak as though Andersen had briefly changed his position. Henry imagined the room, the dark green curtains and light green wallpaper, the rugs on the floor and the large old bed which Lady Wolseley had made him buy, and the lamps on small tables on each side of the bed which Burgess Noakes would have lit, having, as was his custom, turned the main light off in each bedroom. Henry, as he lay on his back with the book he was reading left to one side, his own lamp still switched on and shining, closed his eyes and envisioned his guest now, naked in lamplight, his body powerful and perfect, his skin smooth and soft to the touch, the floorboards creaking under him as, having inspected himself in the mirror one more time, he got into his night attire and crossed the room to fetch his book perhaps, and returned to the bed. Then there was silence. Henry could hear only his own breathing. He waited, not moving. Andersen, he thought, must be in bed. He wondered if he were lying in the dark, or if he had continued reading. He heard the sound of a cough or a clearing of his throat, but nothing else. He took up the book and found his place and resumed reading, concentrating as hard as he could on the words, turning the page in the silence which had now descended on Lamb House.

IN THE MORNING, under clear skies, they went for a stroll through the town as Burgess Noakes packed Andersen’s baggage and the Scot made clean copies of a number of stories which were ready to be sent to magazines. After lunch, the cases lying waiting in the hall and the train for London due within an hour, Henry and Andersen busied themselves with keeping the wasps from feasting on the desserts which they had taken on a tray into the garden with them.

Henry did not know how Andersen would remember his visit to Rye, or how genuinely he meant it when he said that he regretted the shortness of his stay and intended to return and remain longer at Lamb House very soon. He noticed in him a great restlessness which interested him but which he did not envy. He knew that in New York and later in Rome Andersen would attract friends and admirers with his good looks and his unsettling charm. Henry felt strangely protective of him and possessive. He imagined Andersen’s mother in Newport, the effort she had made to find a place for her children in the world, and how this one, this golden youth, guileless and mercurial and vulnerable and surely not a regular correspondent, might preoccupy her, how she might want him home, as Henry wanted him here. Andersen, Henry thought, was ready for everything, except homecoming in any form it might take. The idea of the clash between the son’s golden manners and his ambitions, so carefully refined by his Roman sojourn, and his mother’s needs and worries and longing fascinated Henry now as a possible drama.

Andersen, he saw, was not interested in drama; he was in love with the future. He was what he appeared to be – a young man happily waiting for a train. He was affectionate and grateful, but more than anything, he was looking forward to the journey.

Andersen held Henry by the hand and then embraced him as his luggage was hauled into the compartment.

‘You’ve been so good for me,’ he said. ‘It’s so important that you believe in me.’

He embraced Henry once more before turning and stepping into the train, awkwardly handing Burgess Noakes a small consideration as he edged past him. Henry and Noakes stood on the platform, Noakes remaining still while Henry waved as the train left Rye on its journey to London.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANDERSEN, HIMSELF SO FULL of plans, had asked him casually on his last morning in Rye what his plans were – where, for example, he proposed to travel, or what he thought he might write, or, indeed, if he had any visitors coming to Lamb House who would occupy the space which Andersen was about to vacate. Henry had hesitated and then smiled and said that he believed that he would spend the coming months working on stories and perhaps be fortunate enough not to have the inspiration for a new novel until well into the new year.

Later, when Andersen had gone, Henry had regretted not telling him that he was, indeed, expecting visitors, his brother William, his sister-in-law Alice and his niece Peggy. He regretted also that he had not told Andersen about his appearance on the stage at the end of the opening performance of Guy Domville. It had been easier to present a self in full possession of pride and confidence. He wondered if this might have changed had his friend stayed for two or three more days, but he thought not. Past failure did not interest Andersen who remained fascinated by future triumph. He knew that the young man would be puzzled by his involvement in something as dire and disastrous as Guy Domville and he was glad that he had preserved his own thick shell during Andersen’s stay in Rye.