White had not read the book of Tobit for many years, and what he was really thinking of was not that ancient story at all, but Botticelli’s picture, that picture of the sunlit morning of life.  When you say “Tobias” that is what most intelligent people will recall.  Perhaps you will remember how gaily and confidently the young man strides along with the armoured angel by his side.  Absurdly enough, Benham and his dream of high aristocracy reminded White of that. . . .

“We have all been Tobias in our time,” said White.

If White had been writing this chapter he would have in all probability called it the Tobias stage, forgetful that there was no Tobit behind Benham and an entirely different Sara in front of him.

2

From Cambridge Benham came to London.  For the first time he was to live in London.  Never before had he been in London for more than a few days at a time.  But now, guided by his mother’s advice, he was to have a flat in Finacue street, just round the corner from Desborough Street, a flat very completely and delightfully furnished under her supervision.  It had an admirable study, in which she had arranged not only his books, but a number of others in beautiful old leather bindings that it had amused her extremely to buy; it had a splendid bureau and business-like letter-filing cabinets, a neat little drawing-room and a dining-room, well-placed abundant electric lights, and a man called Merkle whom she had selected very carefully and who she felt would not only see to Benham’s comfort but keep him, if necessary, up to the mark.

This man Merkle seemed quite unaware that humanity “here and now”—­ even as he was engaged in meticulously putting out Benham’s clothes—­ was “leaving its ancestral shelters and going out upon the greatest adventure that ever was in space or time.”  If he had been told as much by Benham he would probably have said, “Indeed, sir,” and proceeded accurately with his duties.  And if Benham’s voice had seemed to call for any additional remark, he would probably have added, “It’s ’igh time, sir, something of the sort was done.  Will you have the white wesket as before, sir, or a fresh one this evening? . . .  Unless it’s a very special occasion, sir. . . .  Exactly, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

And when her son was properly installed in his apartments Lady Marayne came round one morning with a large experienced-looking portfolio and rendered an account of her stewardship of his estate that was already some months overdue.  It was all very confused and confusing, and there were inexplicable incidents, a heavy overdraft at the bank for example, but this was Sir Godfrey’s fault, she explained.  “He never would help me with any of this business,” she said.  “I’ve had to add sometimes for hours.  But, of course, you are a man, and when you’ve looked through it all, I know you’ll understand.”