The first dinner was very gay. My father and Anne talked of the friends they had in common, who were few, but highly colourful. I was enjoying myself up to the moment when Anne declared that my father’s business partner was an idiot. He was a man who drank a lot, but I liked him very much, and my father and I had memorable meals in his company.

“But Anne,” I protested. “Lombard is most amusing; he can even be very funny.”

“All the same, you must admit that he’s somewhat lacking, and as for his brand of humour…”

“He has perhaps not a very brilliant form of intelligence, but…”

She interrupted me with an air of condescension:

“What you call ‘forms’ of intelligence are only degrees.”

I was delighted with her clear-cut definition. Certain phrases fascinate me with their subtle implications, even though I may not always understand their meaning. I told Anne that I wished I could have written it down in my notebook. My father burst out laughing:

“At least you bear no resentment!”

How could I when Anne was not malevolent? I felt that she was too completely indifferent, her judgements had not the precision, the sharp edge of spite, and so were all the more effective.

The first evening Anne did not seem to notice that Elsa went quite openly into my father’s bedroom. She had brought me a jersey from her collection, but would not accept any thanks; it only bored her to be thanked, she said, and as I was anyhow shy of expressing enthusiasm, I was most relieved.

“I think Elsa is very nice,” she remarked as I was about to leave the room.

She looked straight at me without a smile, seeking something in me which at all cost she wished to eradicate: I was to forget her earlier reaction.

“Oh yes, she’s a charming girl…very sympathique,” I stammered.

She began to laugh, and I went up to bed, most upset. I fell asleep thinking of Cyril, probably dancing in Cannes with girls.

I realise that I have forgotten an important factor—the presence of the sea with its incessant rhythm. Neither have I remembered the four lime trees in the courtyard of a school in Provence, and their scent; and my father’s smile on the station platform three years ago when I left school, his embarrassed smile because I had plaits and wore and ugly dark dress. And then in the car his sudden triumphant joy because I had his eyes, his mouth, and I was going to be for him the dearest, most marvellous of toys. I knew nothing; he was going to show me Paris, luxury, the easy life. I dare say I owed most of my pleasure of that time to money; the pleasure of driving fast, of having a new dress, buying records, books, flowers. Even now I am not ashamed of indulging in these pleasures, in fact I just take them for granted. I would rather deny myself my moods of mysticism or despair than give them up. My love of pleasure seems to be the only coherent side of my character. Perhaps it is because I have not read enough? At school one only reads edifying works. In Paris there was no time for reading: after lectures my friends hurried me off to cinemas; they were surprised to find that I did not even know the actors’ names. I sat on sunny café terraces, I savoured the pleasure of drifting along with the crowds, of having a drink, of being with someone who looks into your eyes, holds your hand, and then leads you far away from those same crowds. We would walk slowly home, there under a doorway he would draw me close and embrace me: I found out how pleasant it was to be kissed. In the evenings I grew older: I went to parties with my father. They were very mixed parties, and I was rather out of place, but I enjoyed myself, and the fact that Iw as so young seemed to amuse everyone. When we left, my father would drop me at our flat, and then see his friend home. I never heard him come in.