He was flotsam; he needed someone to provide a fixed mark which he could grasp as he was washed by. Other people had roots. He needed a refuge until he had time to think. The mechanical fury had begun to ebb away, leaving him aimless and disturbed. As he drove through the autumn afternoon, along strangely empty roads, he fumbled in memory for the few old friends who might not be displeased now if he were to turn up at their door… only for time to think, only for a little while… there was Anderson, at the Bath Museum… Gilchrist, in London, where was it, the School of Oriental Studies, and a house by the river at Chiswick… who else? He came to a signpost. Andover. Of course! Stewart lived in Andover: John Stewart, who had blustered him affectionately into the dreadful Rag Days when they were undergraduates; who had shared classes with him and then suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, turned round on his subject and gone into the Church.
