He looked up at me with those red-rimmed eyes and said, ‘Bendrix, I’m afraid.’ I could no longer patronize him; he was one of misery’s graduates: he had passed in the same school, and for the first time I thought of him as an equal. I remember there was one of those early brown photographs in an Oxford frame on his desk, the photograph of his father, and looking at it I thought how like the photograph was to Henry (it had been taken at about the same age, the middle forties) and how unlike. It wasn’t the moustache that made it different—it was the Victorian look of confidence, of being at home in the world and knowing the way around, and suddenly I felt again that friendly sense of companionship. I liked him better than I would have liked his father (who had been in the Treasury). We were fellow strangers.
One thing that absolutely delighted me about the novel is the tenderness between these two. The husband and the lover. Locked in a reluctant, exhausted friendship. So there’s Bendrix who tries so hard to hate EVERYBODY and ESPECIALLY HENRY. And he just can’t. Because everyone who manages to be in his life in some way, he starts to love them. Some more. Some just a little. And Henry is just really good both at sticking around and needing love.