“You mean I might become a restorer of old paintings?” said Francis.

“You certainly could do so, after you had worked with me. But I see you do not take that as a compliment; it suggests that your talent is not first-rate. Well, you asked me for an opinion, and you shall have it. Your talent is substantial, but not first-rate.”

“What’s wrong?”

“A lack of a certain important kind of energy. Not enough is coming up from below. There are dozens of respected artists in this country and elsewhere who cannot begin to draw as well as you, and who have certainly not as fine an eye as you, but they have something individual about their work, even when it looks crude and stupid to the uninstructed eye. What they have is what comes from below. Are you a Catholic?”

“Well—partly, I suppose.”

“I might have known. You must either be a Catholic, or not be one. The half-Catholics are not meant to be artists, any more than the half-anything-elses. Good night, Mr. Cornish. Let us meet again.”

“What would you like for your birthday?”

“Money, please.”

“But Ismay, money isn’t a present. I want to give you something real.”

“What’s unreal about money?”

“Will you promise to buy something you really want?”

“Frank, what do you expect me to do with it?”

So Francis gave her a cheque for ten pounds. When Charlie came to Buys-Bozzaris’s poker-night two days later with ten pounds to risk, Francis was immediately suspicious.

“Did you give Charlie that ten quid?”

“Yes. He was in a hole.”

“But I meant it for you!”

“Charlie and I believe in property in common.”

“Oh? And what does Charlie share with you?”

“What right have you to ask that?”

“Damn it, Ismay, I love you. I’ve told you so more times than I can count.”

“I think the porter at the Examination Schools loves me; he always looks sheepish when I speak to him. But that doesn’t give him the right to ask me about my private life.”

“Don’t talk like a fool.”

“All right, I won’t. You think I’m sleeping with Charlie, don’t you? If I were—and I don’t say I am—what would it be to you? Aren’t you pushing the cousin thing a bit far?”

“It isn’t the cousin thing.”

“Do you remember what you said, the first time you spoke to me? ‘Marry come up, m’dirty cousin.’ I said I’d trace that, and I have. A chap in Eng.Lit. ran it down for me. It’s from an old play: ‘Marry come up, m’dirty Cousin; he may have such as you by the Dozen.’ Is that what you mean, Frank? Do you think I’m a whore?”

“I never heard that; I just thought it was something you said to pushy people. And you were very pushy and you still are. But not a whore. Certainly not a whore.”

“No; not a whore. But Charlie and I have ideas far beyond yours. You’ve some frightfully backwoods notions, Frank. You must understand: I won’t be questioned and I won’t be uncled by you. If that’s the way you want it, we’re through.”

Apologies. Protestations of lover-like concern for her welfare—which made her laugh. An expensive lunch at the George. An afternoon during which she posed for him again; before they settled to work, Ismay struck a number of whorish poses which tormented him, and made her laugh at his torment. And before she went, he gave her another cheque for ten pounds, because she must have a present for herself, and no, no, no, don’t stake Charlie at poker if you really care for him at all, because it will be his ruin.

What Ismay bought with the cheque Francis never knew, for he dared not ask her, and he knew from his bank statement that the cheque was not cashed. Doubtless she was keeping it until something appeared that she really wanted.

What Basil Buys-Bozzaris wanted was becoming clear. After the poker sessions he always asked Francis to stay and talk for a while, and as they lived in the same house there was no need for Francis to leave before midnight; they were free of the rule governing all junior members of the University, who must be in their lodgings or their colleges by midnight, or risk expulsion. Roskalns stayed, as well, because he was not a member of the University, and could come and go as he pleased. And what was the drift of the talk?

Francis understood it long before Buys-Bozzaris knew that he did. The count (if he were a count) from Bulgaria (if that were his place of origin) had what he called advanced political ideas, and although these were not so naive as Charlie’s, they tended in Charlie’s direction. It was not difficult to broach such subjects at Oxford at that time, where it was common talk among shoals of undergraduates that the political world was, in the popular expression, “polarized”. Democracy had failed, and its forms of government might be expected to collapse at any time. Everybody with a head on his shoulders was aware, whether he formulated the thought clearly or not, that he was either a fascist or a communist, and if his head was a good head, there was only one choice. Not to take a side was to be an “indifferentist”, and when the show-down came the indifferentists would surely suffer for their foolishness. Buys-Bozzaris knew which way the cat would jump.

Certainly this political cat would not jump toward fascism, which was essentially a bourgeois concept, under the guidance of people like Hitler and Mussolini who wanted to found strong nations—even empires—on the impossible foundations of some version of capitalism. Only a Marxist world, which was to say a world in which the primary doctrines of Marx had been refined and hammered out through trial and error, had any chance of survival. Was it not time for anybody who had his eye on that jumping cat to throw in his lot with the side that would dominate the civilized world, probably in less than ten years? Wasn’t it every intelligent man’s duty to push things along?

Francis could be of help, perhaps of very great help, but until he had made a firm decision, it was not possible for Buys-Bozzaris to say precisely how it was to be done. Francis was, as Buys-Bozzaris knew—oh, yes, he was not so much the simple student of international law as a casual observer might think—a young man with a certain background. He had money; that was easily to be seen, if you knew what money was, and Buys-Bozzaris knew. He had an invaluable possession in his Canadian citizenship and his Canadian passport, because with those credentials he could go almost anywhere without arousing suspicion. Surely Francis knew that Canadian passports were greatly valued in the world of international espionage? The genuine article, capable of surviving any amount of probing, was a gift of the gods. If Francis chose, he could be immensely useful, and in the course of time his usefulness would not go unrewarded. Had Francis any idea what he was talking about?

Francis admitted that he could dimly guess what lay behind such conversation. But it was such a novel idea. He needed time to think. Gee, it had never been put to him quite that way before. (Francis thought “Gee” a good stroke; it was just what somebody like Buys-Bozzaris would expect a Canadian to say, when the heavens of political opportunity were opened to him.) Could they talk further? He had to get it sorted out, and in such matters as this, he was a slow thinker.

Take plenty of time, said Buys-Bozzaris.

Francis did take plenty of time. He did not want to attract the attention of the Bulgarian count, who seemed to watch all his comings and goings, by doing anything uncommon. So he waited until the Easter vacation to meet Colonel Copplestone and tell him all he knew. Once again they lunched at the Athenaeum. Francis understood that the Colonel thought a crowded room, with lots of noise, the best place for confidences. Two people leaning across a table, talking as quietly as possible, attracted no attention. The Colonel listened to all he had to say.