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could never disobey, “not only would there have been no Arthur, there would have been no Annette, no Lottie, no Connie, no Innes and no Ida.”
    This was indisputably true, and also one of those insoluble metaphysical conundrums. He wished Partridge were there to help him debate the question: could you remain yourself, or at least enough of yourself, if you had a different father? If not, it also followed that his sisters would not have remained themselves either, especially Lottie, whom he loved the best, even though Connie was said to be prettier. He could just about imagine himself being different, but his brain would not stretch to changing one iota of Lottie.
    Arthur might have better stomached the Mam’s response to their reduced social condition if he had not already met her first lodger. Bryan Charles Waller: just six years older than Arthur, but already a qualified doctor. Also a published poet, whose uncle had received the dedication of
Vanity Fair.
Arthur did not object to the fact that the fellow was well-read, even scholarly; nor to the fact that he was a hot-hearted atheist; he objected to the way he was far too easy and charming around the house. The way he said, “So this is Arthur,” and smilingly held out his hand. The way he implied he was one step ahead of you already. The way he wore his two London suits, and talked in generalities and epigrams. The way he was with Lottie and Connie. The way he was with the Mam.
    He was easy and charming with Arthur, too, which went down ill with the large, awkward, stubborn ex-schoolboy just back from Austria. Waller behaved as if he understood Arthur even when Arthur could not seem to understand himself, when he stood there by his own fireside feeling as absurd as if he had a Bombardon tuba wrapped twice around him. He wanted to blow a blast of protest, the more so when Waller affected to peer into his very soul and—which was the most annoying part—to take what he found there seriously and yet also not seriously, smiling away as if all the confusion he detected was unsurprising and unimportant.
    Far too easy and charming with life itself, dammit.
    George
    For as long as George can remember, there has been a maid-of-all-work at the Vicarage, someone in the background scrubbing, dusting, polishing, laying fires, blackening grate and setting the copper to boil. Every year or so there is a change of maid, as one gets married, another goes off to Cannock or Walsall or even Birmingham. George never pays them any attention, and now that he is at Rugeley School, taking the train there and back each day, he notices the maid’s existence even less.
    He is glad to have escaped the village school with its stupid farm boys and odd-talking miners’ sons, whose very names he soon forgets. At Rugeley he is generally with the better sort of boy, while the masters consider it a useful thing to be intelligent. He gets on well enough with his fellows, even if he does not make any close friends. Harry Charlesworth goes to school in Walsall, and nowadays they merely nod at one another if they meet. George’s work, his family, and his faith, and all the duties that flow from these adherences, are what count. There will be time for other things later.
    One Saturday afternoon, George is called to his father’s study. There is a large biblical concordance open on the desk, and some notes for tomorrow’s sermon. Father looks as he does in the pulpit. At least George can guess what his first question will be.
    “George, how old are you?”
    “Twelve, Father.”
    “An age at which wisdom and discretion might to a certain degree be expected.”
    George does not know if this is a question or not, so he remains silent.
    “George, Elizabeth Foster complains that you look at her strangely.”
    He is puzzled. Elizabeth Foster is the new maid; she has been there a few months. She wears a maid’s uniform, like all the previous maids.
    “What does she mean, Father?”
    “What do you