‘I see. A new book?’
‘Well, no—I’m trying to write some short stories; I’ve got a commission from The Good Housewife.’
‘Sounds thrifty. I hope you’re getting well paid.’ Then after a rather long pause: ‘How’s Raftery?’
For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition, regretted his question. ‘Not . . . not. . . .’ he stammered.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘Raftery’s dead—he went lame. I shot him.’
He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery’s death could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to shoot Raftery.
She thought: ‘What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he actually feels something almost like grief—it’s my grief he’s getting—and to-morrow, of course, he’ll forget all about it.’
Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him in contact—a strong brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration.
2
For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening.