A tram was at the terminus outside the lodge gates; boarding it he climbed to the upper deck where the rain lashed the windows soundlessly. He rubbed a clear space on the pane and stared down at the glistening pavements and bobbing umbrella-tops as the journey began. He tried to think what it was in Carey that so attracted him, something in her like a magnet to a compass needle, luring him into behaviour that was out of character—or perhaps only out of the character he had hitherto decided was his own. In this sense his discovery of her was a discovery of himself, and he was puzzled as well as fascinated. Was it merely her voice that did such things to him, or her slight, slanting smile, Mona Lisa among the leprechauns, or her face in quiet profile that was like the figurehead of a ship on a calm day? An actress? Yes, she had the makings of one in her. But the act that enticed him was that of her simple existence.

He left the tram at the Pillar and explored through the rain till he found the flat. A tall Regency house had been subdivided; the flat was on the third floor. He climbed with his heart pounding only partly from the physical exertion, but when Carey opened the door all his tension vanished as if a switch had been pulled. The first exchange of looks confirmed the ease she could give him, instantly, so that he even forgot about Mona. Then when she was taking his dripping hat and mackintosh she mentioned that Mona was out.

“I don’t mind,” he said wryly.

“Oh, but you’ll find her interesting—you could get at least an article out of her.”

“About what?”

“Irish legends—antiquities—old Dublin—she knows it all. This house, for instance, had quite a history before it came down in the world.”

“I’d say that with you here it hasn’t come down in the world at all.”

He wasn’t good at compliments, and this one sounded stilted and artificial. But she warmed it to life with her laughter. “Oh, what a sweet thing to say! But it really was a grand house in the old days—it belonged to Lord Fitzhugh—the Catholic Fitzhughs. They were a wild, eccentric family—one of them fought with Wolfe Tone, and another was always called the holy man because he—”

“Are YOU a Catholic?” he interrupted, brushing aside the Fitzhughs.

“Yes, but I’m not very holy.”

“You mean religion doesn’t matter much to you?”

“Oh no, it matters a lot, but I’m just not conscious of it all the time. Like when you have a good digestion and you don’t worry about what you eat.”

“So you’d call a saint a fellow with a touch of spiritual indigestion?”

“Ah, now, you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m never quite sure when you’re joking.”

“Neither am I. That’s the trouble sometimes.”

“Oh? What trouble? When?”

“Well… during the worst of the street fighting recently nobody would believe how scared I really was.”

“I think I’d be scared too.”

“But you probably wouldn’t laugh about it as I did.”

“No, I’d just run—very seriously.”

“But you can’t, when you’re in a panic. It transfixes you. Perhaps you’ve never known panic.”

So the subject was panic, he thought, with the kind of acceptance that comes in a dream. He had a wild idea to tell her about the panic he had indeed known, the secret panic that sprang from his ambition whenever he realized how time was passing and he was no nearer accomplishment, the rage that sometimes followed the panic, so that he said stupid, brutal things that were often held against him for ever. Panic—yes, he had felt it every birthday when he looked back on the year and reckoned his lack of advancement. Would she understand that if he tried to explain it? Would her own ambitions give her any inkling? He said gruffly: “I’ve never been shot at except by life, and that goes on all the time.”

“Because you find battles everywhere, Paul… don’t you?”

“They ARE everywhere, except… a few moments… a few people… you, for instance.” And saying that, in words so simple, even banal, gave him a comfort that was partly an immense laziness, so that he could relax the sinews of his spirit in her company and let come what might in either words or actions.

She exclaimed: “Oh, I’m so glad about that. I wondered if you’d ever want to see me again after yesterday.”

“Why on earth shouldn’t I?”

“I’m not as clever as you. I don’t know very much. I thought you were just trying to get material out of me for an article.”

“Good heavens, do you think I’m always using people?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were. You’re a writer—an artist. It’s justified by the results.”

“You really think it is, in my case?”

And again the impulse overwhelmed him to tell her, of all things, the truth; to confess it as she would doubtless confess to a priest. He could begin, at least, by admitting that all his boasts and brashness were to cover an almost complete lack of success in anything he had really wanted to do so far; he could say that the articles he had the trick of writing were always trivial and sometimes contemptible, that he had had long spells of fruitless striving and agonized self-disgust, that he was still practically unknown on Broadway despite his poses and pretensions abroad, that he had directed only two plays in his entire life, both of them at an experimental theatre in a New York suburb; that neither had attracted attention or been popular; and that even these meagre achievements had taken place several years before, since when he had been unable to persuade anyone else to give him a third chance. All this he could tell her, and then, perhaps, could follow even other truths…

He said: “Listen… you’ve been so kind, so… so friendly and… and sympathetic… I don’t want you to get any wrong ideas about me… Oh God, don’t answer it—they’ll call again if it’s anything important… let it ring, let it ring…”

But it wasn’t the telephone, for the flat possessed none. Carey hesitated, but there was clearly nothing else she could do but admit Mona. Nervously effusive, devoured by curiosity, Mona was also maddeningly discreet in the way she had forborne to use her key.

Paul froze instantly, became glum, and soon got up to go. The fact that it was Mona’s flat did not prevent him from regarding her as a complete intruder. Carey took him downstairs.