When the raga ended there was a silence. I said, shall I turn it? but he said, no. He was in the shadow, I couldn’t see him very well. Suddenly he said, Would you like to come to bed? I said, no I wouldn’t. He caught me by surprise and I sounded foolish. Frightened. He said, his eyes still on me, ten years ago I would have married you. You would have been my second disastrous marriage. It wasn’t really a surprise. It had been waiting for weeks. He came and stood by me. You’re sure? I said, I haven’t come here for that. At all. It seemed so unlike him. So crude. I think now, I know now, he was being kind. Deliberately obvious and crude. Just as he sometimes lets me beat him at chess. He went to make Turkish coffee and he said through the door, you’re misleading. I went and stood in the kitchen door, while he watched the vriki. He looked back at me. I could swear you want it sometimes. How old are you? I said. I could be your father. Is that what you mean? I hate promiscuity, I said. I didn’t mean that. He had his back turned to me. I felt angry with him, he seemed so irresponsible. I said, anyhow, you don’t attract me that way in the least. He said, with his back still turned, what do you mean by promiscuity? I said, going to bed for pleasure. Sex and nothing else. Without love. He said, I’m very promiscuous then. I never go to bed with the people I love. I did once. I said, you warned me against Barber Cruikshank. I’m warning you against myself now, he said. He stood watching the vriki. You know the Ashmolean Uccello? The Hunt? No? The design hits you the moment you see it. Apart from all the other technical things. You know it’s faultless. The professors with Middle-European names spend their lives working out what the great inner secret is, that thing you feel at the first glance. Now, I see you have the great inner secret, too. God knows what it is. I’m not a Middle-European professor, I don’t really care how it is. But you have it. You’re like Sheraton joinery. You won’t fall apart. He spoke it all in a very matter-of-fact voice. Too. It’s hazard, of course, he said. The genes. He lifted the vriki off the gas-ring at the last possible moment. The only thing is, he said, there’s that scarlet point in your eye. What is it? Passion? Stop? He stood staring at me, the dry look. It’s not bed, I said. But for someone? For no one. I sat on the divan and he on his high stool by the bench. I’ve shocked you, he said. I was warned. ——— John Fowles - The Collector #book