He wrote: ‘I’m longing to see you again and Valérie Seymour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that you never rang her up. It’s a pity you’re so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I call it, you’ll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a complex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle life—better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only the other day she wrote: “When you see Stephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour.” You might write her a line, and you might write to me—already I’m finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I’m just crazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all, we’re told to rejoice with those who rejoice—may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And by the way, Valérie’s very forgiving, so don’t feel shy about telephoning to her. She’s one of those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snubbing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.’
Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: ‘Isn’t it time you went off to bed?’
‘Don’t send me away.’
‘I must, you’re so tired. Come on, there’s a good child, you look tired and sleepy.’
‘I’m not a bit sleepy!’
‘All the same it’s high time. . . .’
‘Are you coming?’
‘Not yet, I must answer some letters.’
Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephen looked away quickly: ‘Good night, Mary.’
‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you’ve never kissed me?’