He was still on the crest of the energy he had spent in denouncing them in a general sensation of burned boats. There had not risen yet doubt of himself, scrutiny, not of his motives, he knew better than to do that, but of the figure he had cut. Yet, his angry elation was like a fir-cone fire, needing baskets of brittle wood-shells. He had a fine story for his friends, something to think about. Scylla written off as a bad job, as a romance. It seemed equally impossible to say good-bye, to leave without saying it. Then the old nurse knocked, told him that his taxi was there, and that Mr. Felix, Miss Scylla, and Mr. Ross wished him a pleasant journey. He tipped her enormously, slipped across the verandah, fearing heads that were not watching. With jars and jerks, the taxi crept up the long hill.
Divine escape. On the down-crest, the earth was a map of naked beauty he saw in the piece and understood. “I’ve been living inside a work of art”—living what was meant to be looked at, not lived in; not to be chewed, swallowed, handled, kissed. He lay back, rocking over the grass track, almost satisfied with this. A piece of life, definitely over for him, with the stone age, and the Middle Ages, and— A patch of purple gauze ahead, smoke of no earthly fire, now a patch of those tall, bee-shaken spikes they called foxgloves. As they passed it, he saw thin legs stuck out of it along the earth, a body backed against the flower wall. It was Picus out there, up there. Looking out at nothing; out to sea. Sitting on the top of the world.
At Starn he was refreshed again with contacts from outside. There was an unusual number of tourists, two and two on the hillpaths, swarming the square. They did him so much good that he crossed to the station to meet a down-train that held more. Not many get out at evening, where there was nothing to do but stare. All he noticed in particular was an old gentleman.
He was beginning to enjoy the country. Enjoy Starn. Would have liked to know more, its history and contemporary life. He thought the old man with a red face, in grey flannels, a local landowner; thought him back to some dignified house, and was surprised later to see him dining at the inn.
He was not known there, it seemed. There was a difficulty about a room for him. Carston felt that he should leave graciously, suggested that the old man should have his room, and he a bed anywhere. There was consultation, hesitation, acceptance, thanks. After an interval, they had settled down to coffee together.
It was easy to be charming to him. An obvious number of right things to say. In a flash that, too, had passed.
“So you’ve been staying over at Gault House with the Taverners. Did you meet my son there—Picus, I think they call him? My name’s Tracy.”
Carston thought: ‘Be cautious, be very cautious indeed. Don’t tell lies. The old man will be going there. His eyes are the colour of his flannels. What we call stone, and never is. Stone takes light.’
“Yes,” he said, “he is staying there with his friends.”
It became suddenly necessary to observe with every faculty he had. He had no idea why; not for distraction, not with reference to himself. The impression was that he was opposite someone very old—not particularly in years, but in something built by centuries of experience, and now no longer in flower. The same could be said of his son and his son’s friends, only that they were in flower, and might not cease flowering once their bodies’ bloom was done. Centuries had gone to his construction. Carston was surprised at his attention to this, until he noticed that their setting outside the inn was the setting of a play.
Before he had wished for drama, and had not found his role. Now he was too much of a man to take himself off.
The stage surpassed all romantic expectations, a town with towers, in hills high enough and low enough to set and display it equally. A fleece of stars over it, thick as the flocks on the down-sides, turning, turning with the earth.
“Do you like this country?” the old man said.
“I like it immensely. I am sorry to leave. I only came down for the week-end.”
“Still, you prolonged it. This is Friday.”
Carston thought: ‘A nice slip to start off with. I’d better be a bit more frank right away.’ “To tell you the truth, I’m a stranger, and I found things a bit difficult over there.”
“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve heard that said before?”
“Not at all.”
