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outside the perimeter of this charmed circle, listening hungrily, coming as close as he dared, barred from entry by an invisible boundary of accent.
    White teeth shone, witticisms flew amid the dark mutterings of war. I was gazing at the young man, thinking about the leanness of his legs, when he accidentally caught my stare. Our eyes met, and then, furiously, he turned away from me and took too large a swallow of his tea, scalding his tongue so that the tea ran down his chin and splashed onto his fingers. With his fist he wiped his chin. Then he brushed his wet fingers against his trousers, leaving a smear. I felt that rare shock of mutual desire and got an erection, and I could tell from the way he was rearranging his legs that he had got one too.
    I wandered over to near where he was standing. I felt him sensing my presence and stiffening in response to it, even though he did not look at me. Soon we were more or less side by side against the wall, both looking straight ahead. I swung my leg out, and our pants brushed. He pulled away as if he’d got a shock. Then he let his leg slide back to where it had been, so that it rubbed slightly against mine. When I turned he was staring at the crowd, his face flushed.
    “Not the best tea, is it?” I said.
    “I’ve had better.”
    He kept his eyes nervously averted and did not look at me.
    “My name is Brian,” I said. “Brian Botsford.”
    “Edward,” he said, then—as an afterthought—added his last name. “Phelan.”
    His hands were large and callused, his handshake rough.
    “Do you live in Earl’s Court?”
    “No, I live with my mum and dad near Upney. I work over at Earl’s Court station, though. The underground station.”
    “Really,” I said. “Are you a driver?”
    “Ticket collector.”
    “That’s very interesting. You see, I’m a writer, and I’m writing a novel—”
    “I like to read novels. I like to read what’s that fellow’s name who wrote the novels about the center of the earth.”
    “Jules Verne.”
    “That’s him.”
    “Well, by coincidence my novel’s got a character who’s quite keen on the London underground.”
    “Has it now? I tell you, you do see it all, in the station. You see every walk of life and type of person. I could tell you stories.”
    “I’m sure you could.”
    We had sat down. His leg was shaking uncontrollably, like a dog’s when you scratch its stomach. “Do you live nearby?” he asked.
    “Not too far.”
    “Alone?”
    “Yes.” (And how delicious it was to live alone!)
    In a single swallow he finished his tea before thrusting the empty cup onto a table. Then he turned and for the first time looked me square in the eye.
    “Would you like to have a walk?” he asked. “It’s a warm evening.”
    “That would be lovely,” I said. “I’ll just say goodbye to my friends.”
    Emma embraced me. “Brian, you old rotter, you’ve hardly said hello and already you’re leaving.”
    “I’m afraid I’ve got to,” I said. “I’m late for dinner.”
    “ ’E ’s a busy little bee, in’t he?” Emma said.
    “Yes, I suppose I am. Well, goodbye.” And I beat a hasty retreat.
    Edward stood waiting by the door. He looked nervous, as if he was afraid of losing me to the crowd or, worse, being seen leaving with me, thus provoking a scandal.
    We stepped into the street. It was a humid night. Lamplight reflected in oil puddles on the murky pavement. Edward’s loping gait, as we walked toward my bed-sitter—our unspoken but obvious destination—thrilled me inordinately. As it turned out, he possessed a wealth of technical information about the underground, and so we talked about the design for the escalators in the new Southgate station on the Piccadilly Line and the process by which the arrival of Wimbledon and Ealing Broadway trains into Earl’s Court station is, and occasionally is not, successfully orchestrated. It seemed to make him more comfortable to know he had some expertise in an area I found