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of. We’re one up on the C. of E. that way.”
    “You know,” said Jan, “you rather disconcert me. I’ve learned to shed a certain amount of lumber, I suppose, but I should think twice before I committed myself to a thing like this. I suppose, to be even with you, I ought to join the Army.”
    “I hardly think—” began Vivian seriously: but imagination suddenly stirred, and she laughed so much that Jan complained of sea-sickness and got up.
    “What about collecting the faun?” he reminded her.
    On the way back they talked books, in reaction perhaps from a conversation, for them, more than usually personal. Vivian had not had time lately for much reading, but between them they had supplied enough ideas to take them as far as the High Street without noticing. As they tramped up Mic’s echoing stairs they were flinging at one another far-fetched parallels between Huxley and Voltaire. They were on their most common ground, all their resemblances displayed, their contrasts submerged; falling unconsciously into the same phrases, gestures, inflections of voice. Mic, who had been painting in the bedroom, came out, said “Hullo,” smiled, and seemed to flicker down like a fire in a shaft of sun.
    The floors were finished and dry, and there were a few packing cases to sit about on.
    “You’ve hung the pictures,” Vivian said.
    “Yes.” It was his politest monochrome. “I did it in the morning. Do you like them?”
    “Very much,” said Vivian with truth. They turned out to be, after all, a set of costume designs for the Casse-Noisette Suite; very pleasant and new to her. Over the mantelpiece there was a photograph of Dolin in “Hymn to the Sun”. It loosened Vivian’s tongue a little; she was excited by ballet, but rarely had an opportunity of seeing it. Mic replied very civilly to all her questions, revealing preferences and aversions similar apparently to her own; but the contact was sparkless, and they soon left the subject, which was, in any case, a little lost on Jan. He never went to ballet. Music was one of his fundamentals, and to disturb one’s perception of it with visual interferences was, to him, an incomprehensible blasphemy, though he never said so.
    The faun was standing under Dolin, looking much at home.
    “Thank you for looking after him.”
    “I liked having him,” said Mic nicely. It was all very pastel and under-emphasised, even her own feeling of meanness, as if she were taking something that really belonged to him.
    “Bed come yet?” inquired Jan.
    “Only the mattress.”
    “We’ll sit on that, and watch you paint. These boxes have too many damned splinters.”
    “I’ll have to go soon,” Vivian said. She had another hour, but was not enjoying herself.
    “My dear chap,” Jan urged her, “talk sense. You haven’t had any tea. Mic, my sweet, finish your sunset-effects and we’ll go and find some.”
    “I don’t think I’ll have time, thanks. But”—he turned to Vivian—“do stay and have a cigarette before you go. It seems all there is in the place to offer you.”
    “Thank you,” said Vivian. Cheered by the prospect of detaching Jan, and unwilling to advertise the feeling, she sat down on the mattress, which was certainly an improvement on the packing-cases. The only other furniture in the room was a new whitewood chest of drawers, and a battered trunk in the window.
    “I’ll unpack for you while you finish.” Jan pulled out a drawer, sniffed the new wood with enjoyment, and threw back the lid of the trunk, displaying the very orderly arrangements inside. “Save time.”
    “You’ll do nothing of the kind.” said Mic over his shoulder. He was stroking a fine line of water-green, with great speed and accuracy, along a stone-coloured panel. He had slim long-boned hands which had a fluency of their own and seemed, somehow, to evince an independent enjoyment of their skill. To Vivian, their vitality only served to underline the uncommunicativeness of his face.