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Sorme’s stockinged feet steam. He suppressed a yawn. Nunne moved to the end of the bed, where he could see the fire, and stretched out his hands towards it.
    Gerard. What you were saying earlier. About looking for some other way to live. . .
    Yes?
    You ought to see a friend of mine. Father Carruthers, at a hotel in Rosebery Avenue.
    That must be where Brother Maunsell lives: there are quite a number of priests there. Do you know him?
    No, I don’t recall him.
    You’re not a Catholic, are you?
    No. My mother is. Carruthers is her friend, really, but I’m sure you’d like him.
    Sorme sipped his beer slowly. He had no real desire to drink it; it tasted bitter and wholly disagreeable to him.
    What do you think this Father Carruthers could do?
    I don’t know. I like him. He’s awfully clever. He knows a lot about psychology—he was a friend of Adler.
    That sounds dangerous.
    Why?
    I can’t imagine the Church approving. Does he talk about neurosis instead of sin?
    Yes. Well no, not exactly. You’d have to go and see him. He’s written a book on Chehov.
    Sorme shifted his chair further back; the fire was too hot. He said, for the sake of saying something:
    I probably will.
    Nunne tilted the beer glass and emptied it. Sorme pushed the quart bottle over to him. Nunne allowed the beer to slop into the glass; the froth immediately brimmed over and ran on to the tablecloth. He leaned forward and sucked up a mouthful of the froth, until it ceased to overflow. He looked up at Sorme suddenly over the brim of the glass, saying, with a casualness behind which Sorme could sense the control:
    You seem to have an awful down on queers, Gerard.
    Sorme said, shrugging:
    No. On the contrary, I always get on very well with them.
    But you don’t like them?
    It’s not that I don’t like them. I disapprove of the queer mentality.
    What on earth is the queer mentality?
    I shouldn’t say.
    Do say. Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t take it personally, I assure you.
    All right. Most queers I’ve known have been too personal. With them, everything is personal. It all depends on people. I can’t imagine a homosexual visionary, or a homosexual Newton or Beethoven. They seem to lack intellectual passion—the capacity to become fanatically obsessed by purely intellectual issues. They’re like women—everything has to be in terms of people and emotions.
    You do talk nonsense, dear boy. How do you know Newton and Beethoven weren’t homosexual? Neither of them got married. What about Schubert, Michelangelo?
    Sorme said, laughing:
    OK. I’m sorry I spoke.
    No, but answer me! I’d like to hear your views.
    No. I’m too tired. When you go tonight, I’ve got to finish packing. I’ll have to be up early tomorrow to start moving.
    Nunne looked at him; his eyes were serious, almost pained. Abruptly, he shook his head, and drank the rest of his beer. He stood up, saying:
    All right, I’ll leave you.
    Sorme immediately felt guilty:
    You don’t have to go yet. It’s hardly eleven. You could stay for another hour.
    No, I’d better go. Why are you smiling?
    You’re like a jack-in-the-box, Sorme said. Why don’t you sit still for a while?
    This was not the real reason Sorme was smiling. He had thought: He has taken it personally. Everything is personal for them. But he was glad Nunne was leaving.
    Bye-bye, Gerard.
    Where will you go?
    Nunne shrugged:
    Home, perhaps. Or a club I know in Paddington. Bye-bye.
    Goodbye, Austin. Thanks for the evening.
    Don’t come down, Nunne said.
    He went out quickly, closing the door behind him. Sorme stood there, until he heard the front door slam. His landlady immediately called: Who’s there? He said angrily to the door: Oh, drop dead! The car door slammed. He looked out of the window, in time to see the rear light disappearing into the darkness.
    He emptied the rest of his beer into the sink, and washed the two glasses, then systematically washed the rest of the crockery on the table. When he had told Nunne he