Probably has to count every penny, same as I did when I was his age in New York. It’s good for him, anyway, till he gets on his feet…. Brains, good looks, and a tuxedo—what more does he need?”

“He’s very shy,” my mother said.

“That’ll wear off.”

“So will the tuxedo. It was frayed at the cuffs already.”

My father looked interested. “You noticed that, Christine? I’ll tell you what I noticed—he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, and he was hoping you’d rescue him from that Hathersage woman he was next to, but you didn’t till nearly the coffee stage…. Must read her new novel, though. They say it’s good.”

That was typical of my father; he respects achievement and is always prepared to weigh it against not liking you, so that in practice he likes you if you are successful enough. Julian said that once, and he was successful enough; doubtless therefore in those days my father thought Brad was going to be successful enough. I remember arguing it out with myself as we drove home.

* * * * *

I saw Brad the morning after the Byfleet dinner; we ran into each other at the College entrance in Gower Street. I suppose this was really our first meeting; he would have passed me with a nod, but I made him stop. “So you’re here too?” I said.

“Hi, there. Sure I am.”

“That was a good party last night.”

“Er … yes….” Then suddenly, with an odd kind of vehemence: “Though I don’t like big parties.”

“It wasn’t so big. Were you bored?”

“Oh no, not a bit. I’m just no good at them. I don’t know what to say to people.”

“Neither do I. I just chatter when I’m chattered to.”

“I wish I could do that…. Or no, perhaps I don’t. It’s a terrible waste of time.”

“For those who have anything better to do. Do you think you have?”

He looked as if he thought that impertinent. I think now it was.

“Yes,” he answered, smiling.

“That sounds rather arrogant.”

But now he looked upset. He didn’t like being called arrogant.

“No, no, please don’t misunderstand me…. I guess I just tell myself it’s a waste of time because I can’t do it. Especially amongst all the big shots—like last night. I don’t know why I was asked.”

“Why did you go?”

“Professor Byfleet has helped me a lot, I didn’t like to refuse.”

“He probably asked you on account of my father, who’s an American too.”

“I know. He told me. He asked me what my work was, but I was a bit tongue- tied. I’m afraid I made a fool of myself.”

“I don’t think you did. It’s by talking too much that most people do that.”

“Personally I agree with you.” There was no inferiority complex about him, thank goodness. The truculence and the humility were just edges of something else.

“Anyhow,” I said, “he liked you.”

“Did he?” Because he looked so embarrassed I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He fidgeted a moment, then glanced at his wrist watch. “Well, I must be off to my lecture….” His second smile outweighed the abruptness with which he left me standing there.

When I got home that night I told my mother I had seen him again.