1


The oldest novel in the world at any rate, White reflected, was a
story with a hero and no love interest worth talking about. It was
the story of Tobias and how he came out from the shelters of his
youth into this magic and intricate world. Its heroine was
incidental, part of the spoil, a seven times relict. . . .

White had not read the book of Tobit for many years, and what he was
really thinking of was not that ancient story at all, but
Botticelli's picture, that picture of the sunlit morning of life.
When you say "Tobias" that is what most intelligent people will
recall. Perhaps you will remember how gaily and confidently the
young man strides along with the armoured angel by his side.
Absurdly enough, Benham and his dream of high aristocracy reminded
White of that. . . .

"We have all been Tobias in our time," said White.

If White had been writing this chapter he would have in all
probability called it THE TOBIAS STAGE, forgetful that there was no
Tobit behind Benham and an entirely different Sara in front of him.



2


From Cambridge Benham came to London. For the first time he was to