That’s so.”

“I admit the whole thing sounds—must sound to you, in fact— well, if you were to tell me you simply didn’t believe a word of it, I’d—”

“Aye, it’s a bit of a facer.”

“But you DO believe it?”

“Reckon I have to, don’t I? After all, you took a good look at that photograph…”

“Yes, it’s the same. I knew that at once…” Winslow’s voice grew almost pathetically eager. “And you WILL help me, won’t you—now that you know how it is? What I had in mind was this—if you agreed— that we go out there together—quite soon—immediately, in fact —before there can be any open scandal involving him—you see what I mean?”

“Aye, I see what you mean.”

“And you agree?”

To which George retorted with sudden sharpness: “Why not, for God’s sake? He may be your son, but she’s my wife too. Don’t you think I’M interested?”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I—I—”

“Now, now, don’t apologize. Come to that, we’ve neither of us much to apologize for.”

“I thought we might leave tomorrow—”

“Aye, if we’re going, might as well—”

“Boswell, I can’t tell you how much I—”

“None o’ that, either, man. Let’s get down to some details. I’ll need a passport.”

And somehow from then on, in spite of what might have been held more humiliating for George than for Winslow in the situation, it was nevertheless George who took the leadership, a certain staunch four-squareness in his make-up easily dominating the other. They both belonged to a world in which the accomplishment of any suddenly urgent task requires the cancelling or postponement of other less urgent ones; and now, as they eased themselves back into chairs, there was nothing left but such routine adjustments. Winslow pulled out a little black notebook and began crossing off this and that; George reached for a sheet of paper on his desk and jotted down a few memoranda. Into the momentary silence there came the distant chiming of the hour on Browdley church clock, and a newsboy shouting familiarly but incoherently along Market Street. GOOD news, perhaps, about the international situation… but it did not seem to matter so much now, so quickly can world affairs be overshadowed by personal ones in the life of even the most public man.

Winslow looked up. “You’re optimistic, Boswell? From your own knowledge of her—do you feel that—that somehow or other you’ll be able to persuade her to—to—”

George’s face was haggard as he replied: “I wouldn’t call my own knowledge so very reliable—not after this.”

“Then perhaps you could talk to my son—try to influence him—”

“Aren’t you the one for that?”

“But a new angle, Boswell—YOUR point of view in the matter— he may not have realized—”

“All right, all right—no good badgering me.” The first shock had been succeeded by anger—helpless anger, which Winslow’s concern for his own son merely exacerbated. “I’m damned if I know what I’ll do— YET.”

“I’m sorry again.” And the two faced each other, both driven out of character and somehow aware of it, for it was not like George to be angry, nor was Winslow accustomed to pleading and apologizing. Presently an odd smile came over his face. “Badger… BADGER…” he repeated. “It’s a long time since I heard that word, and you’ll never guess why it makes me smile.”

“Why?”

“My nickname at school—Badger.”

Then George smiled too, glad of the momentary side-issue. “Because you looked like one or because you did badger people?”

“Both—possibly.”

They once called me Apple-Pie George in Browdley, but it sort of died out.”

“Apple-Pie George?”

“Aye… because somebody threw some apple-pie in my face during an election. The pie stuck but the name didn’t.” He laughed and Winslow laughed, and it was as if one of several barriers between them was from then on let down. “Too bad I haven’t that drop of whisky for you,” George continued. “But how about changing your mind about another cup of tea?”

“Thanks, I will.”

George went to the door and shouted down the corridor to Annie, then came back and began to search a time-table on his desk. “If we’re both going to start in the morning, maybe you’d like to spend the night here?”

“That’s very kind, but I think I’d better go back to London as I planned and join you there tomorrow.”

“Just as you like. There’s a good train at five-eighteen—that still gives you an hour, so take it easy.”

Winslow seemed now better able to do this, and until the time of leaving they both relaxed, arranged further details of their meeting the next day, and talked quite casually on a variety of subjects—some even verging on the intellectual, though George was not in the best mood for appreciation.

Then he took Winslow to the train, and only in the final minutes before its departure did they refer to the personal matter again. Winslow muttered, leaning out of a first-class compartment: “I—I must say it, Boswell —I—I really don’t know how to thank you for—for taking all this in the way you have…”

“What other way was there to take it?”

“I know, I know… but it’s such an extraordinary situation for you to have been able to come to terms with.”

“Who says I’ve come to terms with it?”

“Yes, but I mean—when I try to imagine myself in your place—”

“DON’T.” And there was just the ghost of a smile on George’s face to soften the harsh finality of the word.

“All right… but I can’t help feeling more hopeful already—thanks to you. Of course the affair’s still incomprehensible to me in many ways —for instance, to fathom the kind of person who could do such a thing… of course you know her, but then I know Jeff, and he’s not a fool —that’s what makes HIS side of it so hard to understand.”

“Oh, maybe not so hard,” George replied. “It’s probably what you said that you couldn’t find a name for.”

“Infatuation?”

“If you like.” And then, abruptly and without caring for the awkwardness of time and place, George began to tell something about Livia that he had never mentioned to anyone before. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of a railway station that reminded him, for it had happened (he said) at the end of their honeymoon when they were to catch a night train from a seaside place back to London. They had spent the last day pottering about the promenade between showers, and during one of these, while sheltering, they had got into conversation with a well-dressed and rather distinguished-looking man of sixty or so. It was one of those chance acquaintanceships that flourish amazingly without either background or future prospects; almost immediately the stranger offered to conduct them through an adjacent art gallery which, though full of very bad canvases, gave him the chance to talk so fascinatingly about paintings that they thought he must belong to that world himself until later he talked with equal fascination about literature, music, and politics. Within an hour they were all chattering together like old friends, and as evening approached it seemed perfectly natural to accept the stranger’s invitation to dine.