kind, than the test-tube she carried. Suddenly remembering the theatre-nurse, she got up to go; but at the same moment Mic reappeared, with a slip of paper in his hand, and propped his knee on the bench beside her.
“See Jan off?” he asked.
Their glances met. He was not smiling, but it was as if he had unstrapped a weapon and dropped it on the bench between them. She was instantly filled with a reasonless sense of comfort and relief. His dark incurious eyes held, along with their reserve, a kind of weary humour so like a thought of her own that she lost, momentarily, the sense of contact with another personality. She could have told him everything she had been thinking that evening, except that there seemed no need.
“No,” she said. “I was on duty too.”
“It doesn’t make much odds, does it?”
He spoke without emphasis, casually even. She reflected that this was the first of the Rout who had no grievance and did not protest.
“Not much,” she answered. “I shouldn’t have gone to the station in any case; he hates it.”
“I know.” He smiled faintly. “I thought you might be the exception, though.”
“Jan doesn’t make any.”
He looked at her quickly, as if acknowledging something; a weapon of hers, perhaps, laid down also.
“Oh, well,” he said, “stations do reduce almost anything to ultimate atomic futility.”
“I know. One gets a kind of aphasia which makes it impossible to say anything except ‘Don’t forget to write to me.’ It’s a fact that I once said that to Jan.”
“A good one, certainly. What did Jan say?”
“He just looked wondering.” She added, half to herself because his quiet made this possible, “Jan never allows fag-ends. I don’t know if that’s as uncommon as I think it is.”
“It depends. It isn’t rare as a principle, I dare say. I mean, no doubt a good many people try to plan their lives on that line. More dignified, and so on. But Jan’s peculiar in that he doesn’t seem to expend any thought or will-power on it. Chucking away fag-ends is a reflex with him.”
“Yes,” Vivian considered. “I suppose, by now, it is.”
She looked up at him, as he stood half-propped by one arm against the wall beside her; but he was looking past her down the corridor, occupied with his thoughts.
“A genius for letting go,” he said. “It’s the most envied form of genius, I suppose. Certainly the most spectacular. ‘They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces …’ The ancients would have surnamed him Fortunatus, don’t you think?”
She had been watching his almost expressionless face, and listening to his voice, a light, pleasant voice, flexible and without mannerisms, as dispassionate as if he had been discussing the contents of the test-tube she had brought. Suddenly she got to her feet—leaning as he was, it brought her eyes on a level with his—and said to her own astonishment, “Do you hate him sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” said Mic, looking her in the face without a change of voice or expression, “I think it’s better to think so.”
There was a kind of unseen jerk, as if they had come to the edge of a parapet before they expected. Then Mic swung himself off the bench and said, quickly and conventionally, “He’ll like Cornwall. The digs are good, too, I’ve stayed there.”
“Jan likes it anywhere.”
“I know. It’s depressing, isn’t it?”
“I must go,” said Vivian in sudden panic. “Sister will kill me. And well she may.”
“Tell her it’s Group 4. That will cheer her up.” He had been holding, she realised, the report form in his hand.
“Have you done it already?” she asked foolishly.
“Oh yes. I did it straight away, it doesn’t take long. Don’t worry about the lights, I’ll switch them off after you.” She had turned to go when he said, “Why not change your apron before the Sister sees you?”
“I’d better, I suppose. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
“They’re showing some
“See Jan off?” he asked.
Their glances met. He was not smiling, but it was as if he had unstrapped a weapon and dropped it on the bench between them. She was instantly filled with a reasonless sense of comfort and relief. His dark incurious eyes held, along with their reserve, a kind of weary humour so like a thought of her own that she lost, momentarily, the sense of contact with another personality. She could have told him everything she had been thinking that evening, except that there seemed no need.
“No,” she said. “I was on duty too.”
“It doesn’t make much odds, does it?”
He spoke without emphasis, casually even. She reflected that this was the first of the Rout who had no grievance and did not protest.
“Not much,” she answered. “I shouldn’t have gone to the station in any case; he hates it.”
“I know.” He smiled faintly. “I thought you might be the exception, though.”
“Jan doesn’t make any.”
He looked at her quickly, as if acknowledging something; a weapon of hers, perhaps, laid down also.
“Oh, well,” he said, “stations do reduce almost anything to ultimate atomic futility.”
“I know. One gets a kind of aphasia which makes it impossible to say anything except ‘Don’t forget to write to me.’ It’s a fact that I once said that to Jan.”
“A good one, certainly. What did Jan say?”
“He just looked wondering.” She added, half to herself because his quiet made this possible, “Jan never allows fag-ends. I don’t know if that’s as uncommon as I think it is.”
“It depends. It isn’t rare as a principle, I dare say. I mean, no doubt a good many people try to plan their lives on that line. More dignified, and so on. But Jan’s peculiar in that he doesn’t seem to expend any thought or will-power on it. Chucking away fag-ends is a reflex with him.”
“Yes,” Vivian considered. “I suppose, by now, it is.”
She looked up at him, as he stood half-propped by one arm against the wall beside her; but he was looking past her down the corridor, occupied with his thoughts.
“A genius for letting go,” he said. “It’s the most envied form of genius, I suppose. Certainly the most spectacular. ‘They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces …’ The ancients would have surnamed him Fortunatus, don’t you think?”
She had been watching his almost expressionless face, and listening to his voice, a light, pleasant voice, flexible and without mannerisms, as dispassionate as if he had been discussing the contents of the test-tube she had brought. Suddenly she got to her feet—leaning as he was, it brought her eyes on a level with his—and said to her own astonishment, “Do you hate him sometimes?”
“Sometimes,” said Mic, looking her in the face without a change of voice or expression, “I think it’s better to think so.”
There was a kind of unseen jerk, as if they had come to the edge of a parapet before they expected. Then Mic swung himself off the bench and said, quickly and conventionally, “He’ll like Cornwall. The digs are good, too, I’ve stayed there.”
“Jan likes it anywhere.”
“I know. It’s depressing, isn’t it?”
“I must go,” said Vivian in sudden panic. “Sister will kill me. And well she may.”
“Tell her it’s Group 4. That will cheer her up.” He had been holding, she realised, the report form in his hand.
“Have you done it already?” she asked foolishly.
“Oh yes. I did it straight away, it doesn’t take long. Don’t worry about the lights, I’ll switch them off after you.” She had turned to go when he said, “Why not change your apron before the Sister sees you?”
“I’d better, I suppose. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
“They’re showing some
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