In New York they will meet at a party and exchange ironies. She is now critically eating her melon; finally remarks that food in England has more taste. She talks of how she intends to leave her job and go off to live in the country, in New England, and write a novel. (Her husband is never mentioned.) I realize that neither of us has any desire to talk about Frontiers of War. She has summed me up; she is neither approving nor disapproving; she took a chance; the dinner is a business loss, but that’s the racket. In a moment she will talk amiably but perfunctorily about my book. We are drinking a bottle of good heavy burgundy: steak, mushrooms, celery. Again she says our food tastes better, but adds that we should learn to cook it. I’m now as good-natured with alcohol as she is; but in the pit of my stomach the tension is steadily tightening - her tension. She keeps glancing over at the American in the corner. I suddenly realize that unless I’m careful I’ll start talking out of that hysteria which led me, a few weeks ago, into comic parody for Reginald Tarbrucke. I decide to be careful; I like her too much. And she frightens me. ‘Anna, I liked your book so much.’ ‘I’m glad, thank you.’ ‘Back home there’s a real interest in Africa, in African problems.’ I grin and say: ‘But there is a race thing in that book.’ She grins, grateful because I have, and says: ‘But it is often a question of degree. Well, in your wonderful novel, you have the young flier and the Negro girl sleeping together. Well, now would you say it was important? Would you say their having sex together was vital to the story?’ ‘No, I wouldn’t.’ She hesitates. Her tired, and extraordinarily shrewd eyes show a gleam of disappointment. She had hoped I would not compromise; although it is her job to see that I should. For her, I now see, the sex is in fact the point of the story. Her manner changes subtly: she is handling a writer who is prepared to sacrifice integrity to get a story on to television. I say: ‘But surely, even if they are in love in the purest manner possible, it would be a breach of your code?’ ‘It’s a question of how one handles it.’ I see that at this point the whole thing might very well be dropped altogether. Because of my attitude? No; because of her anxiety over the lone American in the corner. Twice I’ve seen him look at her; I think her anxiety is justified. He is debating whether to come over, or perhaps go off somewhere by himself. Yet he seems to like her well enough. The waiter clears our plates. She is pleased when I say I want coffee, but no sweet: she has been eating business meals twice a day during her trip, and she’s relieved we’re cutting the thing short by a course. She gives another glance over at her solitary compatriot, who shows no signs of moving yet; and decides to return to work.