Next day Julia went to Cartier’s and bought a watch to send to Tom Fennel instead of the one he had pawned, and two or three weeks later, discovering that it was his birthday, she sent him a gold cigarette-case. It was not till after that night when they had first suppered together that Julia confessed to herself that she had fallen in love with Tom. It came to her as a shock. But she was exhilarated. There was something appealing in his slightness, his body was just skin bone, that was why his clothes sat on him so well. She knew that his good looks were due to his youth. He would grow wizened as he grew older, dried up and haggard; that charming flush on his cheeks would turn into a purple glow and his delicate skin would go lined. She felt a strange compassion for him. He had the high spirits of youth. But he was not amusing. Though he laughed when Julia said a funny thing he never said one himself. She did not mind. She found his dullness restful. She never felt so light-hearted as in his company, and she could be brilliant enough for two. Michael, looking for new talent, often took him to the play in the evenings, either in London or the suburbs; they would fetch Julia after the performance, and the three of them suppered together. “He’ll be a nice friend for Roger,” said Michael. “Tom’s got his head screwed on his shoulders the right way, and he’s a lot older than Roger. He ought to have a good influence on him.”
