"That is kind of you to say." Unexpectedly she stretched across the short distance between them and took his hand. "What did you say your name was?"
"Lucas Maybury."
"Do people call you Luke?"
"No, I dislike it. I'm not a Luke sort of person."
"But your wife can't call you Lucas?"
"I'm afraid she does." It was a fishing question he could have done without.
"Lucas? Oh no, it's such a cold name." She was still holding his hand.
"I'm very sorry about it. Would you like me to order you some coffee?"
"No, no. Coffee is not right; it is stimulating, wakeful, overexerting, unquiet." She was gazing at him again with sad eyes.
"This is a curious place," said Maybury, giving her hand a squeeze. It was surely becoming remarkable that none of the other guests had yet appeared.
"I could not live without The Hospice," she replied.
"Do you come here often?" It was a ludicrously conventional form of words.
"Of course. Life would be impossible otherwise. All those people in the world without enough food, living without love, without even proper clothes to keep the cold out."
During dinner it had become as hot in the lounge, Maybury thought, as it had been in the dining-room.
Her tragic face sought his understanding. None the less, the line she had taken up was not a favourite of his. He preferred problems to which solutions were at least possible. He had been warned against the other kind.
"Yes," he said. "I know what you mean, of course."
"There are millions and millions of people all over the world with no clothes at all," she cried, withdrawing her hand.
"Not quite," Maybury said, smiling. "Not quite that. Or not yet."
He knew the risks perfectly well, and thought as little about them as possible. One had to survive, and also to look after one's dependents.
"In any case," he continued, trying to lighten the tone, "that hardly applies to you. I have seldom seen a more gorgeous dress."
"Yes," she replied with simple gravity. "It comes from Rome. Would you like to touch it?"
Naturally, Maybury would have liked, but, equally naturally, was held back by the presence of the watchful lad.
"Touch it," she commanded in a low voice. "God, what are you waiting for? Touch it." She seized his left hand again and forced it against her warm, silky breast. The lad seemed to take no more and no less notice than of anything else.
"Forget. Let go. What is life for, for God's sake?" There was a passionate earnestness about her which might rob any such man as Maybury of all assessment, but he was still essentially outside the situation. As a matter of fact, he had never in his life lost all control, and he was pretty sure by now that, for better or for worse, he was incapable of it.
She twisted round until her legs were extended the length of the sofa, and her head was on his lap, or more precisely on his thighs. She had moved so deftly as not even to have disordered her skirt. Her perfume wafted upwards.
"Stop glancing at Vincent," she gurgled up at him. "I'll tell you something about Vincent. Though you may think he looks like a Greek God, the simple fact is that he hasn't got what it takes, he's impotent."
Maybury was embarrassed, of course. All the same, what he reflected was that often there were horses for courses, and often no more to be said about a certain kind of situation than that one thing.
It did not matter much what he reflected, because when she had spoken, Vincent had brusquely left the room through what Maybury supposed to be the service door.
"Thank the Lord," he could not help remarking naïvely.
"He's gone for reinforcements," she said. "We'll soon see."
Where were the other guests? Where, by now, could they be? All the same, Maybury's spirits were authentically rising, and he began caressing her more intimately.
Then, suddenly, it seemed that everyone was in the room at once, and this time all talking and fussing.
She sat herself up, none too precipitately, and with her lips close to his ear, said, "Come to me later. Number 23."
It was quite impossible for Maybury to point out that he was not staying the night in The Hospice.
Falkner had appeared.
"To bed, all," he cried genially, subduing the crepitation on the instant.
Maybury, unentangled once more, looked at his watch. It seemed to be precisely ten o'clock. That, no doubt, was the point. Still it seemed very close upon a heavy meal.
No one moved much, but no one spoke either.
"To bed, all of you," said Falkner again, this time in a tone which might almost be described as roguish. Maybury's lady rose to her feet.
All of them filtered away, Maybury's lady among them. She had spoken no further word, made no further gesture.
Maybury was alone with Falkner.
"Let me remove your cup," said Falkner courteously.
"Before I ask for my bill," said Maybury, "I wonder if you could tell me where I might possibly find some petrol at this hour?"
"Are you out of petrol?" enquired Falkner.
"Almost."
"There's nothing open at night within twenty miles. Not nowadays. Something to do with our new friends, the Arabs, I believe. All I can suggest is that I syphon some petrol from the tank of our own vehicle. It is a quite large vehicle and it has a large tank."
"I couldn't possibly put you to that trouble." In any case, he, May-bury, did not know exactly how to do it. He had heard of it, but it had never arisen before in his own life.
The lad, Vincent, reappeared, still looking pink, Maybury thought, though it was difficult to be sure with such a glowing skin. Vincent began to lock up; a quite serious process, it seemed, rather as in great-grandparental days, when prowling desperadoes were to be feared.
"No trouble at all, Mr Maybury," said Falkner. "Vincent here can do it easily, or another member of my staff."
"Well," said Maybury, "if it would be all right. ."
"Vincent," directed Falkner, "don't bolt and padlock the front door yet. Mr Maybury intends to leave us."
"Very good," said Vincent, gruffly.
"Now if we could go to your car, Mr Maybury, you could then drive it round to the back. I will show you the way. I must apologise for putting you to this extra trouble, but the other vehicle takes some time to start, especially at night."
Vincent had opened the front door for them.
"After you, Mr Maybury," said Falkner.
Where it had been excessively hot within, it duly proved to be excessively cold without. The floodlight had been turned off. The moon had "gone in", as Maybury believed the saying was; and all the stars had apparently gone in with it.
Still, the distance to the car was not great. Maybury soon found it in the thick darkness, with Falkner coming quietly step by step behind him.
"Perhaps I had better go back and get a torch?" remarked Falkner.
So there duly was a torch. It brought to Maybury's mind the matter of the office file with his name on it, and, as he unlocked the car door, there the file was, exactly as he had supposed, and, assuredly, name uppermost. Maybury threw it across to the back seat.
Falkner's electric torch was a heavy service object which drenched a wide area in cold, white light.
"May I sit beside you, Mr Maybury?" He closed the offside door behind him.
Maybury had already turned on the headlights, torch or no torch, and was pushing at the starter, which seemed obdurate.
It was not, he thought, that there was anything wrong with it, but rather that there was something wrong with him. The sensation was exactly like a nightmare. He had of course done it hundreds of times, probably thousands of times; but now, when after all it really mattered, he simply could not manage it, had, quite incredibly, somehow lost the simple knack of it. He often endured bad dreams of just this kind. He found time with part of his mind to wonder whether this was not a bad dream. But it was to be presumed not, since now he did not wake, as we soon do when once we realize that we are dreaming.