Free Eyeless In Gaza by Aldous Huxley

said. ‘We’ll keep her living in our hearts – won’t we?’
    â€˜Living for us,’ his father continued, ‘so that we can live for her – live finely, nobly, as she would want us to live.’ He paused on the brink of a colloquialism – the sort of colloquialism, he intended it to be, that a schoolboy would understand and appreciate. ‘Live . . . well, like a pair of regular “bricks,”’ he brought out unnaturally. ‘And bricks,’ he continued, extemporizing an improvement on the original locution, ‘bricks that are also “pals.” Real “chums.” We’re going to be “chums” now, Anthony, aren’t we?’
    Anthony nodded again. He was in an agony of shame and embarrassment. ‘Chums.’ It was a school-story word.
The Fifth Form at St Dominic’s
. You laughed when you read it, you howled derisively.
Chums!
And with his father! He felt himself blushing. Looking out of the side window, to hide his discomfort, he saw one of the grey birds come swooping down, out of the sky, towards the bridge; nearer, nearer; thenit leaned, it swerved away to the left, gleamed for a moment, transfigured, and was gone.
    At school everyone was frightfully decent. Too decent, indeed. The boys were so tactfully anxious not to intrude on his emotional privacy, not to insult him with the display of their own high spirits, that, after having made a few constrained and unnatural demonstrations of friendliness, they left him alone. It was almost, Anthony found, like being sent to Coventry. They could hardly have made it worse for him if he had been caught stealing or sneaking. Never, since the first days of his first term, had he felt so hopelessly out of it all as he felt that evening.
    â€˜Pity you missed the match this afternoon,’ said Thompson as they sat down to supper; he spoke in the tone he would have used to a visiting uncle.
    â€˜Was it a good game?’ Anthony asked with the same unnatural politeness.
    â€˜Oh, jolly good. They won, though. Three-two.’ The conversation languished. Uncomfortably, Thompson wondered what he should say next. That limerick of Butterworth’s, about the young lady of Ealing? No, he couldn’t possibly repeat that; not today, when Beavis’s mother . . . Then what? A loud diversion at the other end of the table providentially solved his problem. He had an excuse to turn away. ‘What’s that?’ he shouted with unnecessary eagerness. ‘What’s that?’ Soon they were all talking and laughing together. From beyond an invisible gulf Anthony listened and looked on.
    â€˜Agnes!’ someone called to the maid. ‘Agnes!’
    â€˜Aganeezer Lemon-squeezer,’ said Mark Staithes – but in a low voice, so that she shouldn’t hear; rudeness to the servants was a criminal offence at Bulstrode, and for that reason all the more appreciated, even
sotto voce.
That lemon-squeezerproduced an explosion of laughter. Staithes himself, however, preserved his gravity. To sit unsmiling in the midst of the laughter he himself had provoked gave him an extraordinary sense of power and superiority. Besides, it was in the family tradition. No Staithes ever smiled at his own joke or epigram or repartee.
    Looking round the table, Mark Staithes saw that the wretched, baby-face Benger Beavis wasn’t laughing with the rest, and for a second was filled with a passionate resentment against this person who had dared not to be amused by his joke. What made the insult more intolerable was the fact that Benger was so utterly insignificant. Bad at football, not much use at cricket. The only thing he was good at was work. Work! And did such a creature dare to sit unsmiling when he . . . Then, all of a sudden, he remembered that the poor chap had lost his mother, and, relaxing the hardness of his face, he gave him, across the intervening space, a