Lucky Jim

Dixon jumped lightly down to the floor; he, too, was panting a little.

'What do you want to say?'

'Just this. The last time I saw you, I told you to stay away from Christine. I now discover you haven't done so. What have you got to say about that, to start with?'

'What do you mean, I haven't stayed away from her?'

'Don't try that on with me, Dixon. I know all about your surreptitious little cup of tea with her on the sly yesterday. I'm on to you all right'

'Oh, she told you about that, did she?'

Bertrand tightened his lips behind the beard, which looked as if it could do with a comb-out. 'No no, of course she didn't,' he said violently. 'If you knew her at all, you'd know she didn't do things like that. She's not like you. If you really want to know - and I hope it'll give you a kick - it was one of your so-called pals in this house who told my mother about it. You ought to enjoy thinking about that. Everybody hates you, Dixon, and my God I can see why. Anyway, the point is I want an explanation of your conduct.'

'Oh dear,' Dixon said with a smile, 'I'm afraid that's rather a tall order. Explain my conduct; now that is asking something. I can't think of anybody who'd be quite equal to that task.' /He /was watching Bertrand closely, filing away the news of this latest blow from Johns - who else could it be? - for later pondering and appropriate action.

'Cut it out,' Bertrand said, flushing. 'I gave you a straight warning to leave Christine alone. When I say that sort of thing I expect people to have the sense to do as I say. Why haven't you? Eh?'

Bertrand's rage, and the mere fact of his visit here, combined nicely with their superfluousness, in view of Dixon's having already given up his interest in Christine for other reasons and so abandoning the Bertrand campaign. But he'd be a fool not to keep that to himself for a bit and enjoy himself with a spot of sniping. 'I didn't want to,' he said.

There was a pause, during which Bertrand twice seemed on the point of uttering a long inarticulate bay. His unusual eyes looked like polished glass. Then, in a quieter voice than before, he said: 'Look here, Dixon, you don't seem quite to appreciate what you've got yourself into. Allow me to explain.' He sat down on the arm of the Pall Mall chair and removed his beret, which went rather oddly with the dark suit, white collar, and vine-patterned tie he wore. Dixon sat down on the bed, which whimpered softly beneath him.

'This business between Christine and myself', Bertrand said, fiddling with his beard, 'is a serious business, unquestionably. We've known each other for some considerable period of time. And we're not in it just for a spot of the old slap and tickle, do you follow. I don't want to get married yet awhile, but it's distinctly on the cards that I might marry Christine in a couple of years or so. What I mean is, it's a long-term affair, quite definitely. Now, Christine's very young, younger even than her age. She's not used to having individuals abducting her from dances and inviting her to off-the-record tea-parties in hotels and all the rest of it. In the circumstances, it's only natural she should feel flattered by it, enjoy the excitement of it, and so on, for a time. But only for a time, Dixon. Very soon she's going to start feeling guilty about it and wishing she'd never agreed to meet you at all. And that's where the trouble's going to start; being the sort of gkl she is, she's going to feel bad about getting rid of you, and about doing things behind my back - she doesn't know I know about this yet - and about the whole shooting-match. Well, I want to prevent all that, for the very adequate reason that it's not going to help me at all. I've had quite a time straightening her out already; I don't want to have to start all over again. So what I want to say to you is, keep off the grass, that's all. You're causing nothing but trouble by behaving as you are. You won't do yourself any good, and you'll only hurt Christine and inconvenience me. She's got a few days more down here, and it would be silly to spoil them for all concerned. Does that make sense, now?

Dixon had lit a cigarette to hide the effect on him of this account of Christine's motives; it was more penetrating than he'd have expected from Bertrand. 'Yes, it makes sense all right, up to a point,' he said in what he hoped was a casual tone.' Except for the part about straightening Christine out, of course, which is mere wishful drooling.

Never mind that, though; it all obviously makes very good sense to you.

None of it does to me, though. You don't seem to realize that it's all only all right if your first assumptions are right.'

'I'm telling you that they're right, my lad,' Bertrand said loudly.

'That's what I'm telling you.'