‘Well—I’m awfully busy.’ ‘But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.’ ‘I’m afraid she’ll be out.’ ‘Then I’ll just sit and wait until she comes in; I’ll be quiet as a mouse.’ ‘Oh, no, Brockett, please don’t; I should know you were there and that would disturb me.’ ‘I see. A new book?’ ‘Well, no—I’m trying to write some short stories; I’ve got a commission from _The Good Housewife_.’ ‘Sounds thrifty. I hope you’re getting well paid.’ Then after a rather long pause: ‘How’s Raftery?’ For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition, regretted his question. ‘Not . . . not. . . .’ he stammered. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘Raftery’s dead—he went lame. I shot him.’ He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery’s death could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to shoot Raftery. She thought: ‘What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he actually feels something almost like grief—it’s my grief he’s getting—and to-morrow, of course, he’ll forget all about it.’ Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him in contact—a strong brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration. 2 For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening. ‘You’ll get awfully little to eat,’ warned Stephen, who was tired to death and who did not want him. ‘Oh, all right, I’ll bring some dinner along,’ he said blithely, and with that he hung up the receiver. At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded like a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box containing the lobster salad. He thrust the box into Stephen’s hands. ‘Here, you take it—it’s dripping. Can I have a wash rag?’ But after a moment he forgot the new gloves. ‘I’ve raided Fortnum and Mason—such fun—I do _love_ eating things out of cardboard boxes. Hallo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? A nice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it’s got a ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait a minute—what’s it called? Oh, yes, a baronia—it’s so humble to have such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful—don’t rock the lobster about like that. I told you the thing was dripping!’ He dumped his parcels on to the hall table. ‘I’ll take them along to the kitchen,’ smiled Puddle.