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The End of the Party By Graham Greene Peter Morton woke with a start to face the first light. Rain tapped against the glass. It was January the fifth. He looked across a table on which a night-light had guttered into a pool of water, at the other bed. Francis Morton was still asleep, and Peter lay down again with his eyes on his brother. It amused him to imagine it was himself whom he watched, the same hair, the same eyes, the same lips and line of cheek. But the thought palled, and the mind went back to the fact which lent the day importance. It was the fifth of January. He could hardly believe a year had passed since Mrs Henne-Falcon had given her last childrens party. Francis turned suddenly upon his back and threw an arm across his face, blocking his mouth. Peters heart began to beat fast, not with pleasure now but with uneasiness. He sat up and called across the table, Wake up. Franciss shoulders shook and he waved a clenched fist in the air, but his eyes remained closed. To Peter Morton the whole room seemed to darken, and he had the impression of a great bird swooping. He cried again, Wake up, and once more there was silver light and the touch of rain on the windows. Francis rubbed his eyes. Did you call out? he asked. You are having a bad dream, Peter said. Already experience had taught him how far their minds reflected each other. But he was the elder, by a matter of minutes, and that brief extra interval of light, while his brother still struggled in pain and darkness, had given him self-reliance and an instinct of protection towards the other who was afraid of so many things. I dreamed that I was dead, Francis said. What was it like? Peter asked. I cant remember, Francis said. You dreamed of a big bird. Did I? The two lay silent in bed facing each other, the same green eyes, the same nose tilting at the tip, the same firm lips, and the same premature modelling of the chin. The fifth of January, Peter thought again, his mind drifting idly from the image