The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene

been brought here by love.’
    â€˜Love?’
    â€˜Love of all the world. A desire to be able to exchange – ideas – with – everybody. All this hate,’ Dr Bellows said, ‘these wars we read about in the newspapers, they are all due to misunderstanding. If we all spoke the same language . . .’ He suddenly gave a little wretched sigh which wasn’t histrionic. He said, ‘It has always been my dream to help.’ The rash unfortunate man had tried to bring his dream to life, and he knew that it wasn’t good – the little leather chairs and the draughty waiting-room and the woman in a jumper knitting. He had dreamt of universal peace, and he had two floors on the south side of Oxford Street. There was something of a saint about him, but saints are successful.
    D. said, ‘I think it is a very noble work.’
    â€˜I want everyone who comes here to realise that this isn’t just a – commercial – relationship. I want you all to feel my fellow-workers.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜I know we haven’t got very far yet . . . But we have done better than you may think. We have had Italians, Germans, a Siamese, one of your own countrymen – as well as English people. But of course it is the English who support us best. Alas, I cannot say the same of France.’
    â€˜It is a question of time,’ D. said. He felt sorry for the old man.
    â€˜I have been at it now for thirty years. Of course the War was our great blow.’ He suddenly sat firmly up and said, ‘But the response this month has been admirable. We have given five sample lessons. You are the sixth. I mustn’t keep you any longer away from Mr K.’ A clock struck nine in the waiting-room. ‘La hora sonas,’ Dr Bellows said with a frightened smile and held out his hand. ‘That is – the clock sounds.’ He held D.’s hand again in his, as if he were aware of more sympathy than he was accustomed to. ‘I like to welcome an intelligent man . . . it is possible to do so much good.’ He said, ‘May I hope to have another interesting talk with you?’
    â€˜Yes. I am sure of it.’
    Dr Bellows clung to him a little longer in the doorway. ‘I ought perhaps to have warned you. We teach by the direct method. We trust – to your honour – not to speak anything but Entrenationo.’ He shut himself back in his little room. The woman in the jumper said, ‘Such an interesting man, don’t you think, Dr Bellows?’
    â€˜He has great hopes.’
    â€˜One must – don’t you think?’ She came out from behind the counter and led him back to the lift. ‘The tuition rooms are on the fourth floor. Just press the button. Mr K. will be waiting.’ He rattled upwards. He wondered what Mr K. would look like – surely he wouldn’t fit in here if he belonged to the ravaged world he had himself emerged from.
    But he did fit in – with the building if not with the idealism. A little shabby and ink-stained, he was any underpaid language master in a commercial school. He wore steel spectacles and economised on razor blades. He opened the lift door and said, ‘Bona matina.’
    â€˜Bona matina,’ D. said, and Mr K. led the way down a pitchpine passage walnut-stained: one big room the size of the waiting-room below had been divided into four. He couldn’t help wondering whether he was not wasting his time – somebody might have made a mistake – but then, who could have got his name and address? Or had L. arranged this to get him out of the hotel while he had his room searched? But that, too, was impossible. L. had no means of knowing his address before he had the pocket-book.
    Mr K. ushered him into a tiny cubicle warmed by a tepid radiator. Double windows shut out the air and the noise of the traffic far below in Oxford Street. On one wall was hung a simple