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.It was as if a monk should forsake his cloister to embrace the riches of the world.'What about Catherine?' he said suddenly.'Will anybody have told her? Perhaps we should try to comfort her.' He did not mention the comforting of Deirdre, feeling that Mark's presence would be unnecessary here.It was the middle of the afternoon when they went to her flat.She came to the door, her hair rough and wild, and with no make-up on her face, and offered them beer from a quart bottle which had been opened but not corked up again.It tasted flat and sour.A teapot and cup stood on the table and there was a sheet of paper in her typewriter.Mark craned his head round to read what she had been writing; it seemed to be an article about how to give an 'inexpensive' cocktail party.'Yes, darling, "inexpensive" or cheap, really,' said Catherine brightly.'Don't get the best French vermouth and put more and more ice with the drinks so that as time goes on people will be drinking coloured melted ice-water and they won't even know! And if they suspect, then they're horrid people and not the kind you'd want to have at your party anyway.Writing is such a comfort, isn't it, that's what people always say - it really does take you out of yourself.I sometimes feel it lets you more into yourself, though, and really the very worst part.''Catty, dear, we're so very sorry,' said Digby helplessly.'We came to see if there was anything.''Bless you both, but what can anyone do? It seems a noble way to die, doesn't it, fighting for an oppressed people's freedom against the tyranny of British rule? You can see now that it was all really justified, the breaking-away from his upbringing, the great house, the public school.the last time he went home he was so upset - he thought he had done the wrong thing, leaving it all.''But surely it wasn't quite that, was it?' said Mark a little impatiently.'He got involved in this crowd purely by accident.I don't think he intended to set himself up in opposition to anyone or anything, he just happened to be there, as any other anthropologist might have been.''Any other anthropologist!' said Catherine scornfully."The others would all have been hiding in their huts behind their files of notes.You were always jealous of him, all of you, because you knew you could never hope to equal him in anything.,' she burst into tears and ran from the room.They heard her go into her bedroom and then leave the house, slamming the front door after her.Digby hurried to the window and saw her jump on to a bus which was just leaving the stop.'I suppose she knows where she's going,' he said uneasily.'Perhaps she'll just go for a ride till she's calmed down.It was a pity you had to argue with her, we should just have humoured her, whatever she said.''But it's going to be so tiresome if Tom is going to be built up into a kind of Lawrence of Arabia figure,' said Mark.'I didn't mean to be unkind, but it seemed so very far from the truth.''I wonder if your regard for truth will be helpful to you in your business career,' said Digby sarcastically.'It might even be a hindrance.'They began to bicker in a senseless way and then left the flat.Digby had telephoned Deirdre to meet him and began anxiously to rehearse what he was going to say to her.Mark went back to his room rather sulkily.He was sorry about Tom but in his experience it was only elderly and distant relatives who died.All this, as he put it to himself, was a bit much.By going to such extremes Tom had gone too far.On the bus Catherine had time to calm down and even to feel sorry that she had spoken so sharply to Mark.She sank now into a kind of peace and began to think about Tom.But she found herself remembering not the things they had shared but the things that had kept them apart, and mixed with spontaneous grief for him was a more selfish and personal sorrow at the failures in their relationship which had been her fault.How annoying she must sometimes have been with her wild fancies and her quotations! She remembered the first and only time they had walked along this suburban road together, the house called 'Nirvana' and the stone lions with their blunted paws and noses.The gardens were bare and wintry now, the little front lawns dull and rough-looking; bulbs would be pushing up under the earth but she could not see them yet.Inside the houses all was cosiness and security.In one, a woman bent down over a fire and toasted crumpets; Catherine imagined them charred at the edges but deliriously dripping with butter.In another, a child sat at a table with a green baize cloth, drawing in brightly coloured chalks.Some rooms already had their curtains drawn and she could only guess at the scenes inside.When she had nearly reached the Swans' house she happened to glance across the road and was in time to see a movement of the rust-coloured curtains and old Mrs.Dulke's head come peering out between them.'Catherine! How nice to see you!' Rhoda came to the door in answer to her ring.'You're just in time for tea.'Obviously, then, they didn't know about Tom.'Is Deirdre in?' Catherine asked, after she had acknowledged Rhoda's welcome in a suitable way.'Well, no, she's just gone out - I'm surprised you didn't see her on your way from the bus-stop.You can only just have missed her.One of her boy friends rang up and wanted her to meet him for tea.' Rhoda's tone was full of satisfaction.'Do you know who it was?''Let me see, now.really, she seems to know so many boys and of course she doesn't always tell her aunt or even her mother who she's going out with, but I did just happen to hear her on the telephone, and I think it was Digby, that nice tall fair young man.''I'm glad she is with him,' Catherine said, 'I'm afraid we have had a piece of tragic news - Tom has been killed in Africa.''Oh, no.how terrible! By natives?'Catherine saw past Rhoda's shocked face into her thoughts, the shouting mob of black bodies brandishing spears, or the sly arrow, tipped with poison for which there was no known antidote, fired from an overhanging jungle tree.'No, there was apparently some rioting at the time of the elections and the police had to open fire.Tom was mixed up in the crowd.It was an accident, of course - they couldn't have seen him.''But, surely, a white man among all those natives.' Rhoda protested, and again Catherine saw her picture of Tom, the British anthropologist in immaculate white shorts and topee, note-book and pencil in hand.'I'm afraid it wouldn't be quite like that,' she said.'He was probably wearing a native robe - he often used to.''Oh, what a mistake!' Rhoda burst out.'No good can come of lowering oneself like that.''Well, he used to say it was more comfortable,' said Catherine lamely, feeling that they were getting off the point.They had been standing in the hall, but now Rhoda led Catherine into the drawing-room.There was some light tinkling music on the wireless and the sound of it, together with the bright fire, chintz-covered chairs and sofa, and Mabel Swan sitting with her feet up on a pouffe reading the latest work of a best-selling female novelist, gave Catherine a feeling of safety and comfort, for she had seen no domestic interior that day but the desolation of her own flat.She was glad to sit for some minutes making small talk with Mabel while Rhoda went out to make the tea.Mabel had evidently been dozing over her book so Catherine said nothing about Tom.It was not until Rhoda came back into the room that the news was broken to her
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