Free Return to Night by Mary Renault

I know fairly well because I’ve been there a number of times, and I suppose it’s a natural thing if one’s wandering a bit to wander to places one knows. Only I thought, part of the time, that we were there.” He added, indistinctly, “That was afterward.”
    “After what?”
    She had no time to read the face which he turned to hers, and as swiftly averted. It might have expressed many things—incredulity, shame, even a mortal reproach. It gave her an unhappiness which pointed out to her her unfitness for this kind of research. All she could say was, “Well, never mind.”
    In a voice which was quenched to an almost colorless flatness he said, “I don’t think I can remember anything else.”
    “You don’t have to.” She spoke gently, and saw that there had returned to his face a kind of hesitant trust. “You told me all I wanted to know. I must go. Matron loathes cold coffee.”
    “Just tell me one thing. Did I—behave badly, or anything? You know, the sort of thing I believe people do, shouting and swearing and being embarrassing about their pasts?”
    “Not at all.” Here was comfortably familiar ground. Nearly everyone (except, curiously enough, the people with most cause for concern) asked this sooner or later. Suppressing the amusement which the word “past” had given her, she added, “Your brain just slowed down and you went to sleep.”
    “Thank you,” he said. “I had it rather on my mind.”
    She got up. He made a movement as if to follow; then sinking back again, and smiling up at her, said, “I’ve got cramp. Give me a pull.”
    Good-humoredly she took his outstretched hand in both of hers; there was a good deal of him, and she did not want to be ignominiously pulled over. He got to his feet with a smoothness which did not suggest much muscular contraction, and stood for a moment looking down at her. He could not be much under six foot; one scarcely noticed it except at such close quarters. “Thanks,” he said. He picked up his coat, shook it perfunctorily, and put it on.
    “The back’s covered in bits. Let me brush it, you’re not presentable.”
    He stood there obediently while she did so, and forgot to thank her, as if he were used to it. When she had finished he searched his pockets, and produced the cigarette case which she had last seen lying on the Matron’s blotter. When opened, it proved to contain one cigarette, old and sad-looking. He made an apologetic face, and offered it to her.
    “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I only smoke at odd times.”
    “If this is one of the times, for goodness’ sake have a fresh one.” She became aware of the fact that she could very well do with one herself. He accepted gratefully, turning out to be unprovided with matches as well.
    When they had got back to the drive he stopped and said, “I’ll see you again.”
    “I expect so.”
    “Let’s not leave it so indefinite, though.” He reflected. “How about—could you come over to lunch?”
    “I don’t think,” she said hastily, “I dare make any fixtures at the moment. I’m so busy, I shouldn’t be reliable.”
    “That doesn’t matter. Give us a ring and come at a moment’s notice.” But his air of confidence, this time, was a little forced. She could understand it. The voice of the Matron came back to her: “Anything she does will be done very nicely, you can be sure.” She murmured vague platitudes about the work letting up perhaps, in a month or two; and saw his face register relaxation as well as regret.
    “Never mind. We’ll manage something.” She saw that he meant what he said, and found that it gave her pleasure. I can’t imagine why, she reflected; he’s so erratic and unpredictable, he’d soon become quite exhausting; I suppose it’s just the esthetic factor.
    “I do hope,” he was saying, “I’ve not really put you in wrong with the Matron, keeping you here. In the surprise of actually meeting you, I’m afraid I only had room for one idea at a