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being so kind to her. I made up answers, but I knew they sounded feeble, it wasn’t easy to invent quickly with her. In the end I said I was going into the shops and she was to tell me what she wanted. I said I’d buy anything she wanted.
    “Anything?” she said.
    In reason, I said.
    “Mr. Singleton told you to?”
    No. This is from me.
    “I just want to be set free,” she said. I couldn’t get her to say anything more. It was horrible, she suddenly wouldn’t speak, so I had to leave her.
     
     
    She wouldn’t speak again at lunch. I cooked the lunch in the outer cellar and took it in. But hardly any of it was eaten. She tried to bluff her way out again, cold as ice she was, but I wasn’t having any.
    That evening after her supper, which she likewise didn’t eat much, I went and sat by the door. For some time she sat smoking, with her eyes shut, as if the sight of me tired her eyes.
    “I’ve been thinking. All you’ve told me about Mr. Singleton is a story. I don’t believe it. He’s just not that sort of man, for one thing. And if he was, he wouldn’t have you working for him. He wouldn’t have made all these fantastic preparations.”
    I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t look at her.
    “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. All those clothes in there, all these art books. I added up their cost this afternoon. Forty-three pounds.” It was like she was talking to herself. “I’m your prisoner, but you want me to be a happy prisoner. So there are two possibilities: you’re holding me to ransom, you’re in a gang or something.”
    I’m not. I told you.
    “You know who I am. You must know my father’s not rich or anything. So it can’t be ransom.”
    It was uncanny, hearing her think it out.
    “The only other thing is sex. You want to do something to me.” She was watching me.
    It was a question. It shocked me.
    It’s not that at all. I shall have all proper respect. I’m not that sort. I sounded quite curt.
    “Then you must be mad,” she said. “In a nice kind way, of course.”
    “You admit that the Mr. Singleton story is not true?”
    I wanted to break it gently, I said.
    “Break what?” she asked. “Rape? Murder?”
    I never said that, I answered. She always seemed to get me on the defensive. In my dreams it was always the other way round.
    “Why am I here?”
    I want you to be my guest.
    “Your guest!”
    She stood up and walked round the armchair and leant against the back, eyes on me all the time. She’d taken her blue jumper off, she stood there in a dark green tartan dress, like a schoolgirl tunic, with a white blouse open at the throat. Her hair swept back into the pigtail. Her lovely face. She looked brave. I don’t know why, I thought of her sitting on my knees, very still, with me stroking her soft blonde hair, all out loose as I saw it after.
    Suddenly I said, I love you. It’s driven me mad.
    She said, “I see,” in a queer grave voice.
    She didn’t look at me any more then.
    I know it’s old-fashioned to say you love a woman, I never meant to do it then. In my dreams it was always we looked into each other’s eyes one day and then we kissed and nothing was said until after. A chap called Nobby in R.A.P.C. who knew all about women, always said you shouldn’t ever tell a woman you loved her. Even if you did. If you had to say “I love you,” you said it joking—he said that way it kept them after you. You had to play hard to get. The silly thing was I told myself a dozen times before I mustn’t tell her I loved her, but let it come naturally on both sides. But when I had her there my head went round and I often said things I didn’t mean to.
    I don’t mean I told her everything. I told her about working in the Annexe and seeing her and thinking about her and the way she behaved and walked and all she’d meant to me and then having money and knowing she’d never look at me in spite of it and being lonely. When I stopped she was sitting on the bed looking at