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at Tyler’s austere good looks, in comparison with which his own pleasant appearance shrank to anonymity. Also, Tyler was rich, and careless with it; his father was some sort of industrial magnate, and at the same time a gentleman. The contrast with his own modest background could not have been more marked. And yet for some reason he had been favoured by this prestigious creature, who broke the hearts not only of girls but of women too; there had been rumours, of which he had not taken much notice, but of which he could not help but be aware. Occasionally, in Tyler’s company, Harrison felt like some sort of page, striding along manfully beside his liege lord. This feeling was not uncommon among Tyler’s acquaintances. And yet he liked the man, without trusting him. Flattery came into it, and emulation too. Fortunately they had never had the same girlfriend.
    ‘Tyler? Harrison here.’
    ‘Ah. Noddy.’
    Harrison winced. That was what was wrong with Tyler; he took unfair advantage. There had been an ill-judged invitation to Eastbourne one weekend, in the course of which Tyler had become privy to various family myths and legends. Bibi, in particular, had been fascinated. Tyler, it could be said, had behaved well; at least the Harrison parents had been charmed, particularly Harrison’s father who was unused to so much interest being shown in the menswear business. Tyler, apparently, was desirous of knowing how the shop was run. With a little encouragement Mr Harrison would have jumped in the carand taken Tyler into town to examine the premises. Grinding his teeth silently, Harrison had put a stop to that. In the kitchen, pink-cheeked, his mother was making a cake. ‘Lemon sponge,’ she confided to him. ‘Will he like that, do you think?’ Gracefully Tyler had thanked them for a very pleasant day. He had had the decency to make no further reference to it but to send good wishes to the Harrison parents. ‘I still remember that cake of your mother’s,’ he was apt to say. Sometimes, Harrison thought, he said it too often.
    ‘I just called to check whether it’s all right if I go to the flat this weekend.’
    ‘I thought you had inherited the mantle of commerce.’
    ‘I can still go to Paris, can’t I? If it’s still all right.’
    ‘Perfectly all right. The key is with the concierge. She has been told to expect me. You can stand in for me.’
    ‘You will be coming, then?’
    ‘Doubt it. I’ve been invited here and there. If I do turn up you’ll have to move upstairs, of course.’
    ‘Couldn’t we share? Surely the flat is big enough?’
    ‘Dear fellow, I shouldn’t be alone, should I?’
    ‘Oh. Oh, quite. Well, you’d give me warning, I suppose.’
    ‘Don’t worry about that. Well, enjoy yourself. What will you do there?’
    ‘I hadn’t thought. Go for walks, look at buildings, that kind of thing.’
    ‘If I don’t see you, leave the key with the concierge when you go. And do let me know how you get on. I’ll look in on you, one of these days.’
    And he would, Harrison reckoned. He would make the journey and survey the premises, and even offer some kind of support. Tyler displayed odd moments of kindness which, in the sight of many, compensated for his ruthlessness. Harrison, who never considered himself in the same league, maintaineda worried friendship on that count alone. He had no desire to prevail upon Tyler, but appreciated his moments of favour with fervent loyalty. This never failed to surprise him; he was not, as far as he knew, given to hero-worship. At the same time, he knew that he and Tyler had very little in common; indeed, everything, except Cambridge, separated them. Tyler was not lazy, did not have consoling fantasies of flight. Tyler was very much of the moment, of the here and now. He was a master of situations.
    When the receiver was once more replaced, Harrison felt a wave of exhilaration. He left the shop, now gloomier than ever in the sultry haze, locked the door behind