«All's well that ends well,» said Arnold. «I'm sorry to have involved you both.» No doubt he was sorry. If he had not lost his nerve he could have kept the whole thing secret, he was probably thinking now. However, as Rachel had conjectured, he seemed to have largely recovered his composure. He was sitting very upright, holding his glass carefully in both hands, one leg crossed over the other and a small well-shod foot rhythmically signalling. Everything about Arnold was neat and small, though he was of average height. He had a small well-shaped head, small ears, a small mouth such as a girl would have liked to own, and ridiculously small feet. He had put on his steel-rimmed glasses and his face had resumed its healthy greasy look. His pointed nose probed the atmosphere, his eyes glinted towards me, diffidently. He had combed his pale lank hair.
Obviously the next thing was to get rid of Francis. Francis had put his macintosh on again, probably out of some instinctive self-defence rather than because of any intention of departing. He was helping himself to more whisky. He had pushed his frizzy hair back behind his ears, and his close dark bear's eyes peered inquisitively at me, at Arnold. He looked pleased with himself. Perhaps the unexpected renewal of his priestly function, however momentary and unimpressive, had cheered him, given him a little whiff of power. His eager interested look and the sudden sickening memory of his news made me feel intense annoyance. I now regretted having let him accompany me. His having met Arnold could have some undesirable consequence. On principle I usually avoid introducing my friends and acquaintances to each other. It is not that one fears treachery, though of course one does. What human fear is deeper? But endless little unnecessary troubles usually result from such introductions. And Francis, though a wreck and not to be accounted a serious danger, had always, with the natural talent for it of a failed person, been a trouble-maker. His gratuitous mission this very day had been typical. I wanted him out of the house. I also wanted to talk to Arnold, who was clearly in a talkative, excited, almost euphoric mood. Perhaps I had been wrong to speak of composure. It was more a matter of shock plus whisky.
Without sitting down I said to Francis. «We needn't keep you now. Thanks for coming.»
«Don't go, Doctor,» said Arnold. Perhaps he wanted male support, to surround himself with men. Perhaps they had been having an interesting conversation. Arnold had something of the coarseness and the camaraderie of the homme moyen sensuel. This too could be a help in marriage. Arnold's glass struck his lower teeth with a slight clack. He had probably drunk a good deal since coming downstairs.
«Good-bye,» I said meaningfully to Francis.
«I'm so grateful, Doctor,» said Arnold. «Do I owe you anything?»
«You owe him nothing,» I said.
Francis looked wistful. He had risen, recognizing the futility of resistance, taking his orders from me.
«About what we were talking about before,» he said to me conspiratorially at the door. «When you see Christian-«I won't.»
«Anyway, here's my address.»
«I won't need it.» I led him through the hall. «Goodbye. Thanks.» I shut the front door behind him and returned to Arnold. We sat, both of us crouching a little over the electric fire. I felt very limp and, in a blank sort of way, frightened.
«You are very firm with your friends,» said Arnold.
«He's not a friend.»
«I thought you said-«Oh never mind him. Do you really think Rachel will come down to supper?»
«Yes, I do. This is just a matter of experience. She never sulks for long after a thing like this, not if I lose my temper. She's kind to me then. It's if I keep quiet she goes on and on. Not that we make a habit of scraps like this. But we sometimes both explode and then it's all over at once, clears the air. We're very close to each other. These rows aren't real warfare, they're an aspect of love. This may be hard for an outsider to understand-«I suppose usually there aren't outsiders around.»
«Quite. You do believe me, don't you, Bradley? It's rather important that you should. I'm not just defending myself. It's true. We both shout but there's no real danger. Understand?»
«Yes,» I said, reserving my judgment.
«Did she say anything about me?»
Anyway, what did it mean?
«She's such a good person, very forgiving, very kind. I'll leave her be for the moment. She'll soon pity me and come down. We never let the sun go down upon our wrath. It's fake wrath anyway. You do understand, Bradley?»
«Yes.»
«Look,» said Arnold, «my hand's trembling. Look at the glass shaking about. It's quite involuntary. Isn't that odd?»
«You'd better get your own doctor tomorrow.»
«Oh, I think I shall be better tomorrow.»
«To see her, you fool.»
«Yes, yes, of course. But she's very resilient. Anyway she's not badly hurt, I got that quite clear. Oh thank God, thank God, thank God-I just misunderstood that scene with the poker. She was shamming, furious. I don't blame her. We're a couple of fools. She really isn't badly hurt, Bradley. The doctor explained. Christ, do you think I'm some sort of monster?»
«No. Do you mind if I tidy things up a bit?» I set a stool upright. I began to stoop around the room with a wastepaper basket, picking up broken glass and china, mementoes of the battle which now seemed so unreal, impossible. One casualty was a red-eyed china rabbit which I knew Rachel was very fond of. Who had broken that? Probably Rachel.
«Rachel and I are very happily married,» said Arnold.
«Yes, I'm sure.» He was probably right. They probably were. I sat down again, feeling very tired.
«Of course we argue sometimes. Marriage is a long journey at close quarters. Of course nerves get frayed. Every married person is a Jekyll and Hyde, they've got to be. You mayn't think it, but Rachel is a bit of a nagger. Her voice goes on and on and on sometimes. At least it has lately, I suppose it's her age. You wouldn't believe it, but she can go on for an hour saying the same thing over and over again.»
«Women like to talk.»
«This isn't talk. I mean that she repeats the same sentence over and over and over again.»
«You mean literally? She ought to see a psychiatrist.»
«What sort of sentence does she repeat, saying what? Give me an example.»
«No. You wouldn't understand. It would sound awful when it isn't. She gets an idea and runs it for a while. For instance that I discuss her. with other women.»
«You're not sort of-Are you?»
«You mean running around? No, of course not. Christ, I'm a model husband. Rachel knows that perfectly well. I always tell her the truth, she knows I don't have affairs. Well, I have had, but I told her, and that was ages ago. Why shouldn't I talk to other women, we're not Victorians! I have to have friends and talk freely to them, I can't give way on a point like that. And where it would make one mad with resentment one mustn't give way, one oughtn't to. Anyway she doesn't really expect it, it's all dotty. Why shouldn't I talk about her sometimes? It would look jolly funny if she was a banned subject. It's always open kind sympathetic talk, I wouldn't say anything I wouldn't want her to hear. I don't mind her talking about me to her friends. Christ, one isn't sacred, and of course she does talk, she has lots of friends, she's not cloistered. She says she's wasted her talents, but that's not true, there are hundreds of kinds of self-expression, one doesn't have to be a bloody artist. She's intelligent, she could have been a secretary or something if she'd wanted to, but does she really want that? Of course not. It's a sort of empty complaint, and she knows it, it's just a kind of momentary annoyance with me. She does all sorts of interesting things, she's on endless committees, involved in campaigns for this and that, she knows all sorts of people, Members of Parliament, far grander people than me! She's not a frustrated person-«It's just a mood,» I said. «Women have moods.» The agonized voice I had heard upstairs already seemed remote. Then it occurred to me that I was doing just what she had predicted.