‘A feed to a comedian. A butt.’

‘So I’m a stooge, am I?’

‘No. You’re not a stooge,’ said Netta. ‘It’s just that you have “stooge” moods.’

‘Well, I can’t help it.’

‘No, honestly, George,’ said Peter, pouring out some more beer for himself, ‘what are you thinking about when you go all dead like that?’

‘Dead like what?’

‘Yes,’ said Netta, ‘I’ d like to know what’s going on in his head.’

‘Going on in my head, when?’

‘When you go all dumb, and don’t talk, and look all vague and automatic’

‘Surely a fellow’s allowed to be a bit quiet and thoughtful at times.’

‘Quiet and thoughtful!’ said Netta.

‘He’s probably working out some abstruse mathematical problem,’ said Peter.

‘Yes,’ said Netta, ‘or perhaps he’s a Trappist Monk or something… Vows himself to periods of silence.’

‘No, it couldn’t be that,’ said Peter, ‘because he does answer. It’s just that he’s in a dream.’

‘A somnambulist,’ said Netta.

‘Well, first of all I’m a stooge, and now I’m a somnambulist,’ he said. ‘Which is it to be?’

‘Neither,’ said Netta, ‘just a bloody fool, generally.’

And at this they all laughed.

‘No, honestly,’ said Peter, ‘I wish I knew what went on in your head.’

‘Oh – I don’t know,’ he said, and by now he wanted to change the subject. For the truth of the matter was, of course, that he had not the slightest conception of what went on in his head at those times, and if he admitted as much to Netta she might think he was ill, or even a little mad. And if she thought that, she would be able to despise him as an ineffectual human being even more cruelly and destructively than she did already. He had to go on pretending that these moods arose from sheer preoccupation or indifference. Apart from all this, he was genuinely somewhat worried about himself in this matter, and, because he was worried about it, the subject was distasteful to him.

And he said, ‘Oh – I don’t know…’ and tried to change the subject. ‘Well, Netta,’ he said, ‘how have you been getting on?’

‘Excellently, thank you, Bone,’ said Netta, in that crisp, conclusive tone which she commonly employed when snubbing him, and there was a slightly awkward pause, as it was now clear to all three that he had been caught trying to change the subject.

‘Poor old George,’ said Peter, ‘I believe he’s getting livid with us.’

‘I suppose,’ said Netta, still looking into the fire, ‘that it’s because he’s so big that he’s so silly.’

A perfectly off-hand and unstudied observation, yet such was his state, it made his heart leap up in hope and joy. It was the kindest, most cordial thing she had said for weeks. It was the mention of his bigness which particularly delighted him – the naming and friendly admission of his one physical asset. In his very few successes with women in the past, the thing had always begun with his humorous disparagement of his bigness – he was ‘vast’, ‘huge’, ‘terrific’, ‘simply enormous, of course’. And now Netta had called him big and silly – a perfect combination in the language and tradition of flirtation. Could all be lost, if she could still call him big and silly? He looked at her again, trying to read his fate, to find some sign of change of heart, in some look on her face. But as usual there was nothing there: she put out her cigarette in an ash-tray on the armchair; and got up and began to adjust her hair in the mirror over the fireplace.

As he himself was standing at the mantelpiece she was now less than two feet away from him, and here was another ordeal. There was, he knew now, a definite sphere of sexual attraction, a halo, a field of physical and magnetic influence, which Netta carried about with her wherever she walked. This invisible yet palpable influence petered out at a certain distance, about two feet away from her body, which was its centre and source. So if he kept out of range, if he was more than two feet away from her, he was secure from its effects. But if he went towards her and into it, or she came towards him and either consciously or unconsciously smote him with it, he was made to suffer indescribable things. Within this appalling area his love and physical longing for her took on a frightful increase, underwent a complete qualitative change: giddiness supervened: he was in a world in which he could hardly breathe or think, in which he was choked by the mist of his sensuous anguish. And since the only means of abating this anguish, of turning it into delirious joy, was to seize her in his arms and crush her to himself, and since this means was not open to him, all he could do was to stand still in a state of paralysis and suspense, trying to compose his features, trying to appear normal so as not to give himself away, meanwhile praying that she would release him by walking away, he himself not having the physical strength to do so.

Whether she herself was aware of this two-foot emanation from herself, this imprisoning field of radiance, he never knew. Probably at times she did, and at times she did not. At any rate she now showed outwardly neither consciousness of what she was doing to him, nor any intention to release him at once. She adjusted her hair with deliberation and a serious profile, and then turned and leaned her back against the mantelpiece. She might have been going to stay there for hours. The next moment, however, she strolled into her bedroom, carrying her halo with her, several yards and a solid doorway now being between him and it.

Thus, having assured him, reminded him, warned him of her power, she allowed him to continue his being as before. The whole process had occupied a very short space of time, and was full of mystery. It was as though a policeman, in the night, had shone his lantern on to a dark doorway, held it there for a little while suspiciously, and then walked on.

Chapter Seven

He talked, quite casually and easily with Peter at the mantelpiece, skilfully emptying from his eyes the anxiety and perturbation caused in his brain by every movement and sound he heard from her bedroom – the shutting of a drawer, the opening of a cupboard, the falling of a shoe – and soon there was another ‘Bang-tiddy-bang-bang – bang-bang’ on the door, and Mickey came in.

Mickey was about twenty-six, short, with a small moustache on a pasty face.