He had no idea how bad it was, nor how much worse it was going to be.  For it ended in his going that night from his father’s house to the house in St. John’s Wood where Vera and Mr. Lawrence Stephen lived.

And it was there that he met Desmond.

* * * * *

Nicky congratulated himself on having pulled it off so well.  At the same time he was a little surprised at the ease with which he had taken his father and mother in.  He might have understood it if he had known that Vera had been before him, and that she had warned them long ago that this was precisely the sort of thing they would have to look out for.  And as no opinion ever uttered on the subject of their children was likely to be forgotten by Frances and Anthony, when this particular disaster came they were more prepared for it than they would have believed possible.

But there were two members of his family whom Nicky had failed altogether to convince, Michael and Dorothy.  Michael luckily, Nicky said to himself, was not on the spot, and his letter had no weight against the letters of the Master and the Professor, and on this also Nicky had calculated.  He reckoned without Dorothy, judging it hardly likely that she would be allowed to know anything about it.  Nobody, not even Frances, was yet aware of Dorothy’s importance.

And Dorothy, because of her importance, blamed herself for all that happened afterwards.  If she had not had that damned Suffrage meeting, Rosalind would not have stayed to dinner; if Rosalind had not stayed to dinner she would not have gone with her to the tram-lines; if she had not gone with her to the tram-lines she would have been at home to stop Nicky from going to St. John’s Wood.  As it was, Nicky had reached the main road at the top of the lane just as Dorothy was entering it from the bottom.

At first Frances did not want Dorothy to see her father.  He was most horribly upset and must not be disturbed.  But Dorothy insisted.  Her father had the letters, and she must see the letters.

“I may understand them better than you or Daddy,” she said.  “You see, Mummy, I know these Cambridge people.  They’re awful asses, some of them.”

And though her mother doubted whether attendance at the Professor’s lectures would give Dorothy much insight into the affair, she had her way.  Anthony was too weak to resist her.  He pushed the letters towards her without a word.  He would rather she had been left out of it.  And yet somehow the sight of her, coming in, so robust and undismayed and competent, gave him a sort of comfort.

Dorothy did not agree with Michael.  There was more in it than the Professor’s imagination.  The Professor, she said, hadn’t got any imagination; you could tell from the way he lectured.  But she did not believe one word of the charge against her brother.  Something had happened and Nicky was screening somebody.

“I’ll bet you anything you like,” said Dorothy, “it’s ‘Booster’s’ wife.  She’s made him give his word.”