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Babbacombe, close, laughing up in his face, almost vertically up.
    “Look, Dad! I’d left it in the Ladies’ Toilet at the surg’ry all the time! Silly me!”
    He marched straight on. She got out of his way and turned to go with him. He was going far faster than she could, with his long strides, so every now and then she had to trip again, with a burst of gay laughter. Once in position, she felt for his hand, leaning sideways towards him, head on one side, her body stretching so that her silk square crept up towards his shoulder. He would get a stride ahead and she would trip again, still feeling for his hand. She got it at last. It stopped swinging. Without slackening his march, the Sergeant’s fingers shifted from her palm to her wrist. After that she no longer tripped, but kept up with him in a constant running movement of quick little steps. She had to.
    I went downstairs, into the garden, and began to pace round our little lawn with my hands in my trouser pockets. Between my lust for Evie’s trim femininity and my fear of her bloodshot father were a whole host of other less immediately pressing considerations. Henry might drop a word somewhere; though I had a simple and unconscious faith in Henry. Captain Wilmot might drop one. Robert—and now that my rage was gone I was worried about him—Robert might be badly hurt. My own left ear felt warm still and my right eye, while not as bad as Evie’s, was nevertheless tender. It watered easily. Also there was Imogen. I came to a halt on the grass and stared at a belated bee which was fumbling over a spike of delphinium. I realized in a puzzled kind of way that I had not thought of Imogen for hours and hours. She came back into my mind and pushed my heart down as usual; but this time in a way that I was quite unable to understand . She made my pursuit of Evie not only urgent and inevitable; the mere thought of her quickened me to desperation . It was—and even then I felt the absurdity of it—as if since she had got engaged to be married I was forced into some sort of competition with her and him. I began to pace round and round again. I felt like a fly in treacle.
    The next morning, when I was shaving, I saw Robert trot into the garden for a final pre-Cranwell bout with his punchball. The sight made me embarrassed. Our fight had been a typical one between his sort of boy and my sort, as described in all juvenile literature. He was clear cut, clean-limbed . He had a straight left. I was strong, square, and clumsy; an oaf, in fact. Despite this, I had won. Moreover, I had won in the way an oaf might be expected to—the only way indeed, permitted to him—by cheating. I had stuck my knee in his balls. It was useless to tell myself it had been an accident; for I knew that after he was doubled over, helpless, I had felt an instant of black malice, cruel joy, and sheer intention before I hit him with my fist. It was a bit more treacle. There he was, down there, dancing with his athlete’s limber movements round the motionless ball; and I could see that he had sticking plaster on his nose now, as well as his shins. Here was I, devious and calculating, with a different accent, and unable to drive a car. When I saw that he had finished his workout and was about to trot back to the house, I stuck my halfscraped face out of the window and waved my safety razor at him.
    “Wotcher Robert! Going off today? Good luck!”
    Robert cut me dead. He hoisted the duke of Wellington’s profile into the air with all its plaster and carried it straight through into the house. I did not laugh. I was humiliated and ashamed.
    Nor was it easy, however I contrived and loitered, to meet our mutual friend, young Babbacombe. She was on the hook. She was padlocked and bolted, chained. Each day, Sergeant Babbacombe brought her to work, stood watching her through the door, then went on to set out the chairs in the Town Hall; or gather them and stack them up; or collect the pennies from the locks in