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to the window, smoothing his thick white hair down on to his neck. ‘Look, Bruno, of course you can do anything you like. You don’t have to say “please” to me. And I hope you don’t think–Naturally I assume–It’s not–I really am just thinking about you. You could be inventing a torment for yourself.’
    ‘I’m already in torment. I want to try–anything.’
    ‘Well, I don’t understand,’ said Danby, ‘but OK, go ahead, no one’s stopping you.’
    ‘Don’t be cross with me, Danby, I can’t bear your being cross.’
    ‘I’m not cross, for heaven’s sake!’
    ‘Would you go and see him?’
    ‘ Me? Why me?’
    ‘I think it would be wise to spy out the land,’ said Bruno. The new thought that Miles might simply refuse to come was frightening him terribly. It had not occurred to him for a moment. Perhaps Danby was right that the risk was not worth taking. He lived so much in his mind now. Suppose he wrote and got no answer? Suppose the telephone were just replaced when he rang up? There were worse torments, other vistas, further galleries. All the rest and that as well.
    ‘You mean find out if he would come? Perhaps argue him into coming?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Danby smiled. ‘Am I the right ambassador, dear Bruno? Miles and I never exactly hit it off. And I haven’t seen him for years. He thought I was unworthy of his sister.’ Danby paused. ‘I was unworthy of his sister.’
    ‘There’s no one else,’ said Bruno. His voice was becoming hoarse. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re part of the family.’
    ‘All right. When do you want me to go? Tomorrow?’
    ‘Not tomorrow.’ His heart was suddenly beating violently. What would it be like?
    Danby was looking at him closely. ‘The doctor won’t approve of this.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter what the doctor thinks now. Perhaps you would write a letter.’
    ‘To Miles? Saying what? Asking to come and see him?’
    ‘Yes. Do everything very slowly. I mean, give Miles time to think. He might be hasty. If he has time to think he’ll come.’
    ‘Well, all right. Will you compose the letter? You know I’m hopeless at letters.’
    ‘No, you compose it. But not today.’
    Adelaide came in and threw the Evening Standard on to the bed. A river of stamps cascaded to the floor. ‘I’ll bring your tea in ten minutes. Would you like muffins or anchovy toast?’
    ‘Muffins, please, Adelaide.’
    The door closed. Danby was picking up the stamps and putting them into the black wooden box. Bruno’s father had disapproved of stamp hinges, which he held were injurious to stamps, and had indeed spent a lifetime vainly trying to invent an alternative device. So although he believed strongly in the aesthetic aspect of his hobby, and had often preached to Bruno that a man who did not love looking at his stamps was a tradesman and no true philatelist, he had never kept the stamps in books. He had constructed the large wooden box with a great many narrow drawers within which the stamps were supposed to lie between fitted cellophane covers, which could be fanned out when the drawers were opened. Bruno however, whose attachment to the stamps was even more purely aesthetic than that of his father, had long ago started to jumble the carefully docketed system by which they were arranged. Of late he had started selecting out his special favourites, regardless of origin, and these were now kept heaped together in a spare drawer at the top.
    ‘OK, Bruno,’ said Danby. ‘I’ll do that small thing. Don’t worry. We’ll see. Can I help you to the lav?’
    ‘No, thanks. I can manage.’
    ‘Well, I’ll be off. I’ve got an appointment at the Balloon. Cheerio.’
    He thinks I won’t do it, thought Bruno, gradually moving his legs toward the side of the bed, but I will. It was frightening though, the prospect of a change, something utterly new, the danger of being hurt in a new way. He got his legs over the side of the bed and rested. Suppose Miles wouldn’t come,