Let the big man talk. Don’t tell him what a fool he is if you can possibly avoid it.”

Paul was almost ready to resent this as a second return to an issue that had already been terminated, but with relief inside him now rising to enthusiasm, he found it possible to laugh heartily.

Rowden laughed too. “You know, Paul, I’ve been searching for a word to describe what’s the real trouble with you, and I think I’ve got it… you’re not WORLD-BROKEN.”

“WORLD-BROKEN? What’s that?… On the analogy of—”

“That’s it. You don’t care what you do—or where. And to continue the metaphor, you’ll end up shivering in an outdoor kennel instead of basking on the hearthrug in front of a warm fire.”

“Okay, Michael… So long as I have even the kennel, to hell with the hearthrug.” (It was the first and last time he ever called him Michael.)

“You’re probably still young enough to be able to make the choice. How lucky you are, indeed!”

* * * * *

Paul said his goodbyes in the corridor outside their bedrooms, and Rowden left him with a cordial invitation to visit Venton League again. Paul promised he would, though with a premonition that it would never happen. There was so much in the man that he liked and admired, and much too that he felt he could make use of—not in any sense of exploitation, but rather as part of the process of self-enlightenment. He wondered whether Rowden guessed that Venton League was the first house he had ever visited where dressing for dinner was routine and not show-off, where vintage wines were drunk ritually but not snobbishly, and where servants shined shoes and packed for guests. His own packed bag faced him now, and on top, where Briggs must have placed it as a reminder, lay the Martin Chuzzlewit from the city library. With that as a goad, the thought of Carey leapt at him unleashed and with extra strength because all day, it seemed, he had been holding it at bay. Now that he was alone the enormity of having cancelled the planned excursion sank in his mind with an effect of sickness. He contemplated the possibility that he would never see her again, that Rowden and Merryweather had between them set an end to the relationship, the one with a touch of forethought and the other unwittingly, while he himself had weakly acquiesced.

He knew he could not sleep with such thoughts in his mind. He paced the room, staring at the furniture, the pictures, anything that might stir some feeble counter-interest. Suddenly he saw the volume of Rowden’s verses on his bedside shelf, hard to miss if he had ever before given the books any attention. He sat on the edge of the bed and read a few pages. The title was “Leaves”, it had been privately printed, and there was no publication date. He soon decided that Rowden’s low estimate of its worth (however insincere) was the plain truth. It was interesting, though, as a clue to the man’s tastes and personality. Somewhat in the style of Swinburne or Baudelaire —perhaps written as long ago as that, when their kind of writing was in vogue. Paul re-read a few of the poems and tried to decide on an adjective for them. ‘Unpleasant’ would never have entered his mind had not Rowden laid such stress on the word; as it was, with an idea thus implanted, Paul diagnosed here and there a sort of strained morbidity, perhaps considered decadent at one time, but nowadays merely outmoded. Of course the items in Latin and Greek were beyond him. Having skimmed the book through (it was very short) he put it aside and forgot it was his own property, Rowden having inscribed it for him; so that the next day, after he had gone, its presence still at the bedside conveyed a far more crushing verdict than any he had formulated. Though he never knew this, it was the reason why Rowden did not reply to several letters Paul sent him during the next few weeks; and, indeed, it was the end of their fleeting contact.

Next, and in some sense as an antidote, he picked up Chuzzlewit and turned to the American section; its sheer readableness diverted him for a few moments, but all the time he was imagining what Carey might have thought of America and Americans whilst reading it. Perhaps he should write her a letter to go back with the book; Briggs could mail them to the theatre the next day. He went to a desk and filled several sheets of notepaper, chiefly about Chuzzlewit; it was his first letter to her, indeed, except for the mere note he had sent with the roses. Then he noticed that the inside of the book-cover contained a library card with her address in Terenure, and an idea was born in him that speedily rose to huge dimensions. For he knew now where she lived, where she was at that moment—and she had said it was less than a mile away. Why shouldn’t he walk over to her house before going to bed and make his own delivery of the book and the letter? Of course she would be asleep at such an hour, but he could come close to her for a moment, perhaps for the last time, and she would later know that he had been there. It was odd how satisfying that was to him as he contemplated it.

Venton League was locked and bolted, but the garden door had a simple latch, and he knew there was a side gate several hundred yards from the house that led through unused stables and another gate into a road. He also knew the general direction of Terenure, but that was all. Fortunately he soon met a late-homing tram-driver who directed him to the address.