Authors: Frederic Lindsay
If
she
had
got
Maitland,
there
was
no
telling
what
she
might
have
said,
but
in
the
message
she
left
for
him
with
Sam
Wilson
only
the
heating
had
failed.
It
was
typical
of
the
little
man
that
he
should
turn
up
on her
doorstep,
where
she
kept
him
as
he
explained
that
not
being
able
to
find
Maitland
and
being
so
concerned
by
the
idea
of
her
alone
in
an
unheated
house
in
this
awful
weather
he'd
made
his
mind
up
at
last
that
quite
the
best
thing
would
be
to
come
himself.
And
here
he
was
…
Whatever
his
faults,
he
was
good-hearted.
It
was
typical
of
him,
too,
that
when
she
relented
and let
him
inside
he
had
stared
reproachfully
from
the
log
fire roaring
in
the
hearth
to
the
bowl
of
soup
laid
out
for
her
lunch
and
taken
off
his
coat
with
the
air
of
a
man
waiting
for
an
apology.
Afterwards,
when
she
could
bring
herself
to
think
about the
things
that
happened
later,
it
did
seem
some
part
of
the
blame
might
be
laid
to
him.
If
he
hadn't
come,
if
he
had
been
different
when
he
did,
she
would
have
stayed
where
she
was
until
Maitland
returned.
To
be
fair,
he
had
argued
against
taking
her
to
Balinter.
There was no guarantee Maitland would be there; perhaps he had gone off to hire a car; probably he was on his way home right now. Didn't that make sense?
Wilson
wondered.
Plainly,
the
chivalric
impulse
was
exhausted.
In
the
car
he
drove
without
speaking,
presumably
to
show
how
displeased
he
was,
but
after
a
while
the
silence
got
to
be
too
much
for
him.
'It
might
have
been
better
if
Maitland
hadn't
come
at
all
to
the
meeting.’
'What?'
'This
morning.
It
was,
quite
honestly,
it
was
a
disaster.’
About
money,
their
meetings
now
were
always
about
money.
“He's
the
first
professor
I've
ever
seen
come
into
a
meeting
with
a
Filofax,”
Maitland
had
said
of
a
new
colleague;
bids
for
projects,
zero
funding
options,
it's
a
new
language.
The
afternoon
was
taut
with
a
washed
clean
light
and
to
her
left
where
the
country
was
flat
she
saw
the
fields
like
faded
rugs
thrown
down
under
the
hills.
'I
know
you
take
an
interest,'
he
was
saying.
'Sorry?'
'Perhaps
I
was
wrong.
I
thought
you
took
an
interest.
In
the
Department,
the
University,
what
is
happening.’
'Not
when
it's
about
money.’
'Too
depressing
?
Well,
of
course
it
is.
We
waste
endless
time
on
whether
we
can
afford
to
do
things,
so
that
all
the
important
questions
about
why
we
do
them
and
how
we
do
them,
there's
no
time
for
them
at
all.’
Talk
like
this,
she
had
heard
it
before,
for
years
now.
Because
he
seemed
to
expect
a
reply,
she
offered,
'I
know',
and
sighed.
'Oh,
quite
.
We're
all
weary
of
it.
It's
part
of
the
grey
fabric.
But
it's
the
real
world
we
have
to
live
in
and
we
have
to
cope
with
it.
We
can't
just
give
up.
That's
not
duty
.
'
'Duty
.’
'You
say
it
exactly
the
way
Maitland
would.
I'm
sorry.
I
didn't
mean
that
the
way
it
sounded.’
She
said
nothing,
not
caring;
but
he
wasn't
any
good
with
silences.
'The
thing
is
I
know
how
splendid
he
can
be
when
he's
making
fun
of
something.
But
he
used
to
care
as
well.’
'Henney
Low,'
Lucy
said.
He
turned
his
head
sharply
as
if
to
check
whether
she
was
making
fun
of
him.
'Someone
Maitland
talks
about.
A
clever
man
who
doesn't
really
care.’
'He
was
witty
this
morning,'
Sam
Wilson,
'but
it
didn't
go
down
well.
It
didn't
help
.
'
'I've
changed
my
mind,'
Lucy
said.
'Let
me
out
at
the
station,
would
you,
please?'
'If
you're
not
feeling
well
–
if
you
have
a
headache? –
I could
take
you
home
again.’
'No
.’
Parking
at
the
station
entrance,
he
broke
their
silence.
'Despite
–
I
mean,
I
have
great
respect
for
Maitland.
The
work
he's
done.
That
doesn't
alter.
And,
of
course,
it's
not
surprising
if
he
wasn't
at
his
best
–
wasn't
himself
this
morning
–
not
after
the
accident.’