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obviously bought his tropical suit from a shipper who had worked off on him an unwanted line: it was oddly striped and liverish in colour. ‘You’re Wilson, aren’t you?’ Reith said. ‘I saw your name in Col. Sec.’s book today.’
    ‘Yes, that’s me,’ Wilson said.
    ‘My name’s Reith. I’m Chief Assistant Col. Sec. This is Scobie, the deputy-commissioner.’
    ‘I saw you this morning outside the Bedford Hotel, sir,’ Wilson said. There was something defenceless, it seemed to Scobie, in his whole attitude: he stood there waiting for people to be friendly or unfriendly—he didn’t seem to expect one reaction more than another. He was like a dog. Nobody had yet drawn on his face the lines that make a human being.
    ‘Have a drink, Wilson.’
    ‘I don’t mind if I do, sir.’
    ‘Here’s my wife,’ Scobie said. ‘Louise, this is Mr Wilson.’
    ‘I’ve heard a lot about Mr Wilson already,’ Louise said stiffly.
    ‘You see, you’re famous, Wilson,’ Scobie said. ‘You’re a man from the town and you’ve gate-crashed Cape Station Club.’
    ‘I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. Major Cooper invited me.’
    ‘That reminds me,’ Reith said, ‘I must make an appointment with Cooper. I think I’ve got an abscess.’ He slid away.
    ‘Cooper was telling me about the library,’ Wilson said, ‘and I thought perhaps …’
    ‘Do you like reading?’ Louise asked, and Scobie realized with relief that she was going to be kind to the poor devil. It was always a bit of a toss-up with Louise. Sometimes she could be the worst snob in the station, and it occurred to him with pity that perhaps now she believed she couldn’t afford to be snobbish. Any new face that didn’t ‘know’ was welcome.
    ‘Well,’ Wilson said, and fingered desperately at his thin moustache, ‘well …’ It was as if he were gathering strength for a great confession or a great evasion.
    ‘Detective stories?’ Louise asked.
    ‘I don’t mind detective stories,’ Wilson said uneasily. ‘Some detective stories.’
    ‘Personally,’ Louise said, ‘I like poetry.’
    ‘Poetry,’ Wilson said, ‘yes.’ He took his fingers reluctantly away from his moustache, and something in his dog-like look of gratitude and hope made Scobie think with happiness: have I really found her a friend?
    ‘I like poetry myself,’ Wilson said.
    Scobie moved away towards the bar: once again a load was lifted from his mind. The evening was not spoilt: she would come home happy, go to bed happy. During one night a mood did not change, and happiness would survive until he left to go on duty. He could sleep …
    He saw a gathering of his junior officers in the bar. Fraser was there and Tod and a new man from Palestine with the extraordinary name of Thimblerigg. Scobie hesitated to go in. They were enjoying themselves, and they would not want a senior officer with them. ‘Infernal cheek,’ Tod was saying. They were probably talking about poor Wilson. Then before he could move away he heard Fraser’s voice. ‘He’s punished for it. Literary Louise has got him.’ Thimblerigg gave a small gurgling laugh, a bubble of gin forming on a plump lip.
    Scobie walked rapidly back into the lounge. He went full tilt into an arm-chair and came to a halt. His vision moved jerkily back into focus, but sweat dripped into his right eye. The fingers that wiped it free shook like a drunkard’s. He told himself: Be careful. This isn’t a climate for emotion. It’s a climate for meanness, malice, snobbery, but anything like hate or love drives a man off his head. He remembered Bowers sent home for punching the Governor’s A.D.C. at a party, Makin the missionary who ended in an asylum at Chislehunt.
    ‘It’s damned hot,’ he said to someone who loomed vaguely beside him.
    ‘You look bad, Scobie. Have a drink.’
    ‘No, thank you. Got to drive round on inspection.’
    Beside the bookshelves Louise was talking happily to Wilson, but he could feel the