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lived it over every day for so long now that I am in danger of forgetting the true shape of how it was, because each time I go over it I wish that I had given a little more here or there, or at the very least said what was in my heart, so that he could have known how much it meant to me. But I was incapable, even when happy, of exposing myself thus far.
    After a while the radio closed down on us, and we were left there in silence, except for the hum of the machine. I started to pull myself upright and said, "I must go and switch that thing off, I can't stand that noise," but he held on to me and said, "No, don't go." I pulled away and said that I must, and before I knew where I was I found myself thinking that I couldn't stop him if he really wanted to, because I liked him so much, and if I stopped him he would believe that I didn't: also that if ever, now: also that it would be good for me. So I shut my eyes, very tight, and waited. It was quite simple, as it was summer and I was wearing very few clothes, and he seemed to know quite well what he was doing: but then of course so did I
seem
to know, and I didn't. However, I managed to smile bravely, in order not to give offense, despite considerable pain, and I hoped that the true state of affairs would not become obvious. I remember that he stroked my hair, just before, and said in his oh so wonderfully polite and chivalrous way:
    "Is this all right? Are you all right, will this be all right?"
    I knew what he meant and, eyes shut, I smiled and nodded, and then that was it and it was over. Which proves
that deception is indeed a tangled web. And I had no one but myself to blame. But it was something that when I opened my eyes again, there was only George: I clutched his head to my bosom and I cried:
    "Oh George, tell me about you, tell me about you," but now it was his turn to shut his eyes and, moaning softly, he buried his face against me while I stroked his hair and the thin brown hollow of his cheek. After a while he did say something which, though hardly distinguishable, I took to be "Oh God, how pointless this is." I was a little perturbed by this statement, though not so much then as later, and after a couple more minutes I got up, switched off the radio, and went off to the bathroom, leaving him enough time to straighten himself up or even, if he so wished, to disappear. I returned, some time later, in my dressing gown, and found him still there, sitting where I had left him, but now upright and with his eyes open.
    "Hello," I said, stopping in the doorway and smiling brightly, willing to show anything rather than the perplexing mass of uncertainties which possessed me.
    "Hello, George, what about a drink?"
    "I wouldn't mind a drink," said George, so off I went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of whisky, or what was left of it, and we both had a large drink. I sat on the floor with my back against his knees, which gave me a sense of touch without contact that I found extremely comforting. He rested one hand heavily on my head, which was comforting too. I drank the drink quickly, and felt a little better. After all, I said to myself, people don't do that to other people just because they think they ought to. Just through sheer politeness because they think they've been invited in to do it. People don't work like that, I said to myself. He must have wanted it a bit. I told myself, or he wouldn't have bothered. However kind he appears to be, he can't be as kind as all that. He must be one of these bisexual people, I thought, or perhaps even
he's no more queer than I am promiscuous, or whatever the word is for what I pretend to be. Perhaps we appeal to each other because we're rivals in hypocrisy.
    After some time, George said:
    "Rosamund, I ought to be going."
    "Ought you?" I said.
    "I think so."
    Thinking that he probably wanted to go, I did not quite know whether I ought to suggest that he might stay, for once I had suggested it, kindness and chivalry might