Over the River

CHAPTER 1

Clare, who for seventeen months had been the wife of Sir Gerald Corven of the Colonial Service, stood on the boat deck of an Orient liner in the River Thames, waiting for it to dock. It was ten o’clock of a mild day in October, but she wore a thick tweed coat, for the voyage had been hot. She looked pale—indeed, a little sallow—but her clear brown eyes were fixed eagerly on the land and her slightly touched-up lips were parted, so that her face had the vividness to which it was accustomed. She stood alone, until a voice said:

“Oh! HERE you are!” and a young man, appearing from behind a boat, stood beside her. Without turning, she said:

“Absolutely perfect day! It ought to be lovely at home.”

“I thought you’d be staying in Town for a night at least; and we could have had a dinner and theatre. Won’t you?”

“My dear young man, I shall be met.”

“Perfectly damnable, things coming to an end!”

“Often more damnable, things beginning.”

He gave her a long look, and said suddenly:

“Clare, you realise, of course, that I love you?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“But you don’t love me?”

“Wholly without prejudice.”

“I wish—I wish you could catch fire for a moment.”

“I am a respectable married woman, Tony.”

“Coming back to England because—”

“Of the climate of Ceylon.”

He kicked at the rail. “Just as it’s getting perfect. I’ve not said anything, but I know that your—that Corven—”

Clare lifted her eyebrows, and he was silent; then both looked at the shore, becoming momentarily more and more a consideration.

When two young people have been nearly three weeks together on board a ship, they do not know each other half so well as they think they do. In the abiding inanity of a life when everything has stopped except the engines, the water slipping along the ship’s sides, and the curving of the sun in the sky, their daily chair-to-chair intimacy gathers a queer momentum and a sort of lazy warmth. They know that they are getting talked about, and do not care. After all, they cannot get off the ship, and there is nothing else to do. They dance together, and the sway of the ship, however slight, favours the closeness of their contacts. After ten days or so they settle down to a life together, more continuous than that of marriage, except that they still spend their nights apart. And then, all of a sudden, the ship stops, and they stop, and there is a feeling, at least on one side, perhaps on both, that stocktaking has been left till too late. A hurried vexed excitement, not unpleasurable, because suspended animation is at an end, invades their faculties; they are faced with the real equation of land animals who have been at sea.

Clare broke the silence.

“You’ve never told me why you’re called Tony when your name is James.”

“That IS why. I WISH you’d be serious, Clare; we haven’t much time before the darned ship docks. I simply can’t bear the thought of not seeing you every day.”

Clare gave him a swift look, and withdrew her eyes to the shore again. ‘How clean!’ she was thinking. He had, indeed, a clean oval-shaped brown face, determined, but liable to good humour, with dark grey eyes inclined to narrow with his thoughts, and darkish hair; and he was thin and active.

He took hold of a button of her coat.

“You haven’t said a word about yourself out there, but you aren’t happy, I know.”

“I dislike people who talk about their private lives.”

“Look!” he put a card into her hand: “That club always finds me.”

She read:

MR. JAMES BERNARD CROOM,

The Coffee House,

St. James’ Street.

“Isn’t the Coffee House very out of date?”

“Yes, but it’s still rather ‘the thing.’ My Dad put me down when I was born.”

“I have an uncle by marriage who belongs—Sir Lawrence Mont, tall and twisty and thin; you’ll know him by a tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglass.”

“I’ll look out for him.”

“What are you going to do with yourself in England?”

“Hunt a job. That’s more than one man’s work, it seems.”

“What sort of job?”

“Anything except schoolmastering and selling things on commission.”

“But does anybody ever get anything else nowadays?’

“No. It’s a bad look-out. What I’d like would be an estate agency, or something to do with horses.”

“Estates and horses are both dying out.”

“I know one or two racing men rather well. But I expect I shall end as a chauffeur. Where are you going to stay?”

“With my people. At first, anyway. If you still want to see me when you’ve been home a week, Condaford Grange, Oxfordshire, will find me.”

“Why did I ever meet you?” said the young man, with sudden gloom.

“Thank you.”

“Oh! you know what I mean. God! she’s casting anchor. Here’s the tender! Oh! Clare!”

“Sir?”

“Hasn’t it meant anything to you?”

Clare looked at him steadily before answering.

“Yes. But I don’t know if it will ever mean any more. If it doesn’t, thank you for helping me over a bad three weeks.”

The young man stood silent, as only those can be silent whose feelings are raging for expression. . . .

The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy: the building of a house, the writing of a novel, the demolition of a bridge, and, eminently, the finish of a voyage. Clare landed from the tender in the usual hurly-burly, and, still attended by young Croom, came to rest in the arms of her sister.

“Dinny! How sweet of you to face this bally-hooley! My sister, Dinny Cherrell—Tony Croom. I shall be all right now, Tony. Go and look after your own things.”

“I’ve got Fleur’s car,” said Dinny. “What about your trunks?”

“They’re booked through to Condaford.”

“Then we can go straight off.”

The young man, going with them to the car, said ‘Good-bye’ with a jauntiness which deceived no one; and the car slid away from the dock.

Side by side the sisters looked at each other, a long and affectionate scrutiny; and their hands lay, squeezed together, on the rug.

“Well, ducky!” said Dinny, at last. “Lovely to see you! Am I wrong to read between the lines?”

“No. I’m not going back to him, Dinny.”

“No, never, non?”

“No, never, non!”

“Oh! dear! Poor darling!”

“I won’t go into it, but it became impossible.” Clare was silent, then added suddenly, with a toss back of her head: “Quite impossible!”

“Did he consent to your coming?”

Clare shook her head. “I slipped off. He was away. I wirelessed him, and wrote from Suez.”

There was another silence. Then Dinny squeezed her hand and said:

“I was always afraid of it.”

“The worst of it is I haven’t a penny. Is there anything in hats now, Dinny?”

“‘All British’ hats—I wonder.”

“Or, perhaps, I could breed dogs—bull terriers; what d’you think?”

“I don’t at present. We’ll enquire.”

“How are things at Condaford?”

“We rub on. Jean has gone out to Hubert again, but the baby’s there—just a year old now. Cuthbert Conway Cherrell. I suppose we shall call him ‘Cuffs.’ He’s rather a duck.”

“Thank God I haven’t that complication! Certain things have their advantages.” Her face had the hardness of a face on a coin.

“Have you had any word from him?”

“No, but I shall, when he realises that I mean it.”

“Was there another woman?”

Clare shrugged.

Again Dinny’s hand closed on hers.

“I’m not going to make a song of my affairs, Dinny.”

“Is he likely to come home about it?”

“I don’t know. I won’t see him if he does.”

“But, darling, you’ll be hopelessly hung up.”

“Oh! don’t let’s bother about me. How have you been?” And she looked critically at her sister: “You look more Botticellian than ever.”

“I’ve become an adept at skimping. Also, I’ve gone in for bees.”

“Do they pay?”

“Not at present. But on a ton of honey we could make about seventy pounds.”

“How much honey did you have this year?”

“About two hundredweight.”

“Are there any horses still?”

“Yes, we’ve saved the horses, so far. I’ve got a scheme for a Condaford Grange bakery. The home farm is growing wheat at double what we sell it at. I want to mill and bake our own and supply the neighbourhood. The old mill could be set going for a few pounds, and there’s a building for the bakery. It wants about three hundred to start it. We’ve nearly decided to cut enough timber.”

“The local traders will rage furiously.”

“They will.”

“Can it really pay?”

“At a ton of wheat to the acre—vide Whitaker—we reckon thirty acres of our wheat, plus as much Canadian to make good light bread, would bring us in more than eight hundred and fifty pounds, less, say, five hundred, cost of milling and baking. It would mean baking one hundred and sixty two-pound loaves a day and selling about 56,000 loaves a year. We should need to supply eighty households, but that’s only the village, more or less. And we’d make the best and brightest bread.”

“Three hundred and fifty a year profit,” said Clare. “I wonder.”

“So do I,” said Dinny. “Experience doesn’t tell me that every estimate of profit should be halved, because I haven’t had any, but I suspect it. But even half would just tip the beam the right way for us, and we could extend operations gradually. We could plough a lot of grass in time.”

“It’s a scheme,” said Clare, “but would the village back you?”

“So far as I’ve sounded them—yes.”

“You’d want somebody to run it.”

“M’yes. It would have to be someone who didn’t mind what he did. Of course he’d have the future, if it went.”

“I wonder,” said Clare, again, and wrinkled her brows.

“Who,” asked Dinny suddenly, “was that young man?”

“Tony Croom? Oh! He was on a tea plantation, but they closed down.” And she looked her sister full in the face.

“Pleasant?”

“Yes, rather a dear. HE wants a job, by the way.”

“So do about three million others.”

“Including me.”

“You haven’t come back to a very cheery England, darling.”

“I gather we fell off the gold standard or something while I was in the Red Sea. What is the gold standard?”

“It’s what you want to be on when you’re off, and to be off when you’re on.”

“I see.”

“The trouble, apparently, is that our exports and carrying-trade profits and interests from investments abroad don’t any longer pay for our imports; so we’re living beyond our income. Michael says anybody could have seen that coming; but we thought ‘it would be all right on the night.’ And it isn’t. Hence the National Government and the election.”

“Can they do anything if they remain in?”

“Michael says ‘yes’; but he’s notably hopeful. Uncle Lawrence says they can put a drag on panic, prevent money going out of the country, keep the pound fairly steady, and stop profiteering; but that nothing under a wide and definite reconstruction that will take twenty years will do the trick; and during that time we shall all be poorer. Unfortunately no Government, he says, can prevent us liking play better than work, hoarding to pay these awful taxes, or preferring the present to the future. He also says that if we think people will work as they did in the war to save the country, we’re wrong; because, instead of being one people against an outside enemy, we’re two peoples against the inside enemy of ourselves, with quite opposite views as to how our salvation is to come.”

“Does he think the socialists have a cure?”

“No; he says they’ve forgotten that no one will give them food if they can neither produce it nor pay for it. He says that communism or free trade socialism only has a chance in a country which feeds itself. You see, I’ve been learning it up. They all use the word Nemesis a good deal.”

“Phew! Where are we going now, Dinny?”

“I thought you’d like lunch at Fleur’s; afterwards we can take the three-fifty to Condaford.”

Then there was silence, during which each thought seriously about the other, and neither was happy. For Clare was feeling in her elder sister the subtle change which follows in one whose springs have been broken and mended to go on with. And Dinny was thinking: ‘Poor child! Now we’ve both been in the wars. What will she do? And how can I help her?’

CHAPTER 2

“What a nice lunch!” said Clare, eating the sugar at the bottom of her coffee cup: “The first meal on shore is lovely! When you get on board a ship and read the first menu, you think: ‘My goodness! What an enchanting lot of things!’ and then you come down to cold ham at nearly every meal. Do you know that stealing disappointment?”

“Don’t I?” said Fleur. “The curries used to be good, though.”

“Not on the return voyage. I never want to see a curry again. How’s the Round Table Conference going?”

“Plodding on. Is Ceylon interested in India?”

“Not very. Is Michael?”

“We both are.”

Clare’s brows went up with delightful suddenness.

“But you can’t know anything about it.”

“I WAS in India, you know, and at one time I saw a lot of Indian students.”

“Oh! yes, students. That’s the trouble. They’re so advanced and the people are so backward.”

“If Clare’s to see Kit and Kat before we start,” said Dinny, “we ought to go up, Fleur.”

The visit to the nurseries over, the sisters resumed their seats in the car.

“Fleur always strikes me,” said Clare, “as knowing so exactly what she wants.”

“She gets it, as a rule; but there’ve been exceptions. I’ve always doubted whether she really wanted Michael.”

“D’you mean a love affair went wrong?”

Dinny nodded. Clare looked out of the window.

“Well, she’s not remarkable in that.”

Her sister did not answer.

“Trains,” Dinny said, in their empty third-class compartment, “always have great open spaces now.”

“I rather dread seeing Mother and Dad, Dinny, having made such an almighty bloomer. I really must get something to do.”

“Yes, you won’t be happy at Condaford for long.”

“It isn’t that. I want to prove that I’m not the complete idiot. I wonder if I could run an hotel. English hotels are still pretty backward.”

“Good idea. It’s strenuous, and you’d see lots of people.”

“Is that caustic?”

“No, darling, just common sense; you never liked being buried.”

“How does one go to work to get such a thing?”

“You have me there. But now’s the time if ever, nobody’s going to be able to travel. But I’m afraid there’s a technical side to managing hotels that has to be learned. Your title might help.”

“I shouldn’t use his name. I should call myself Mrs. Clare.”

“I see. Are you sure it wouldn’t be wise to tell me more about things?”

Clare sat silent for a little, then said suddenly: “He’s a sadist.”

Looking at her flushed face, Dinny said: “I’ve never understood exactly what that means.”

“Seeking sensation, and getting more sensation when you hurt the person you get it from. A wife is most convenient.”

“Oh! darling!”

“There was a lot first, my riding whip was only the last straw.”

“You don’t mean—!” cried Dinny, horrified.

“Oh! yes.”

Dinny came over to her side and put her arms round her.

“But, Clare, you must get free!”

“And how? My word against his. Besides, who would make a show of beastliness? You’re the only person I could ever ever speak to of it.”

Dinny got up and let down the window. Her face was as flushed as her sister’s. She heard Clare say dully:

“I came away the first moment I could. It’s none of it fit for publication. You see, ordinary passion palls after a bit, and it’s a hot climate.”

“Oh! heaven!” said Dinny, and sat down again opposite.

“My own fault. I always knew it was thin ice, and I’ve popped through, that’s all.”

“But, darling, at twenty-four you simply can’t stay married and not married.”

“I don’t see why not; mariage manqué is very steadying to the blood. All I’m worrying about is getting a job. I’m not going to be a drag on Dad. Is his head above water, Dinny?”

“Not quite. We were breaking even, but this last taxation will just duck us. The trouble is how to get on without reducing staff. Everyone’s in the same boat. I always feel that we and the village are one. We’ve got to sink or swim together, and somehow or other we’re going to swim. Hence my bakery scheme.”

“If I haven’t got another job, could I do the delivering? I suppose we’ve still got the old car.”

“Darling, you can help any way you like. But it all has to be started. That’ll take till after Christmas. In the meantime there’s the election.”

“Who is our candidate?”

“His name is Dornford—a new man, quite decent.”

“Will he want canvassers?”

“Rather!”

“All right. That’ll be something to do for a start. Is this National Government any use?”

“They talk of ‘completing their work’; but at present they don’t tell us how.”

“I suppose they’ll quarrel among themselves the moment a constructive scheme is put up to them. It’s all beyond me. But I can go round saying ‘Vote for Dornford.’ How’s Aunt Em?”

“She’s coming to stay tomorrow. She suddenly wrote that she hadn’t seen the baby; says she’s feeling romantic—wants to have the priest’s room, and will I see that ‘no one bothers to do her up behind, and that.’ She’s exactly the same.”

“I often thought about her,” said Clare. “Extraordinarily restful.”

After that there was a long silence, Dinny thinking about Clare and Clare thinking about herself. Presently, she grew tired of that and looked across at her sister. Had Dinny really got over that affair of hers with Wilfrid Desert of which Hubert had written with such concern when it was on, and such relief when it was off? She had asked that her affair should never be spoken of, Hubert had said, but that was over a year ago. Could one venture, or would she curl up like a hedgehog? ‘Poor Dinny!’ she thought: ‘I’m twenty-four, so she’s twenty-seven!’ And she sat very still looking at her sister’s profile. It was charming, the more so for that slight tip-tilt of the nose which gave to the face a touch of adventurousness. Her eyes were as pretty as ever—that cornflower blue wore well; and their fringing was unexpectedly dark with such chestnut hair. Still, the face was thinner, and had lost what Uncle Lawrence used to call its ‘bubble and squeak.’ ‘I should fall in love with her if I were a man,’ thought Clare, ‘she’s GOOD. But it’s rather a sad face, now, except when she’s talking.’ And Clare drooped her lids, spying through her lashes: No! one could not ask! The face she spied on had a sort of hard-won privacy that it would be unpardonable to disturb.

“Darling,” said Dinny, “would you like your old room? I’m afraid the fantails have multiplied exceedingly—they coo a lot just under it.”

“I shan’t mind that.”

“And what do you do about breakfast? Will you have it in your room?”

“My dear, don’t bother about me in any way. If anybody does, I shall feel dreadful. England again on a day like this! Grass is really lovely stuff, and the elm trees, and that blue look!”

“Just one thing, Clare. Would you like me to tell Dad and Mother, or would you rather I said nothing?”

Clare’s lips tightened.

“I suppose they’ll have to know that I’m not going back.”

“Yes; and something of the reason.”

“Just general impossibility, then.”

Dinny nodded. “I don’t want them to think you in the wrong. We’ll let other people think that you’re home for your health.”

“Aunt Em?” said Clare.

“I’ll see to her. She’ll be absorbed in the baby, anyway. Here we are, very nearly.”

Condaford Church came into view, and the little group of houses, mostly thatched, which formed the nucleus of that scattered parish. The home-farm buildings could be seen, but not the Grange, for, situate on the lowly level dear to ancestors, it was wrapped from the sight in trees.

Clare, flattening her nose against the window, said:

“It gives you a thrill. Are you as fond of home as ever, Dinny?”

“Fonder.”

“It’s funny. I love it, but I can’t live in it.”

“Very English—hence America and the Dominions. Take your dressing-case, and I’ll take the suitcase.”

The drive up through the lanes, where the elms were flecked by little golden patches of turned leaves, was short and sweet in the lowered sunlight, and ended with the usual rush of dogs from the dark hall.

“This one’s new,” said Clare, of the black spaniel sniffing at her stockings.

“Yes, Foch. Scaramouch and he have signed the Kellogg Pact, so they don’t observe it. I’m a sort of Manchuria.” And Dinny threw open the drawing-room door.

“Here she is, Mother.”

Advancing towards her mother, who stood smiling, pale and tremulous, Clare felt choky for the first time. To have to come back like this and disturb their peace!

“Well, Mother darling,” she said, “here’s your bad penny! You look just the same, bless you!”

Emerging from that warm embrace, Lady Cherrell looked at her daughter shyly and said:

“Dad’s in his study.”

“I’ll fetch him,” said Dinny.

In that barren abode, which still had its military and austere air, the General was fidgeting with a gadget he had designed to save time in the putting on of riding boots and breeches.

“Well?” he said.

“She’s all right, dear, but it IS a split, and I’m afraid complete.”

“That’s bad!” said the General, frowning.

Dinny took his lapels in her hands.

“It’s not her fault. But I wouldn’t ask her any questions, Dad. Let’s take it that she’s just on a visit; and make it as nice for her as we can.”

“What’s the fellow been doing?”

“Oh! his nature. I knew there was a streak of cruelty in him.”

“How d’you mean—knew it, Dinny?”

“The way he smiled—his lips.”

The General uttered a sound of intense discomfort.

“Come along!” he said: “Tell me later.”

With Clare he was perhaps rather elaborately genial and open, asking no questions except about the Red Sea and the scenery of Ceylon, his knowledge of which was confined to its spicy offshore scent and a stroll in the Cinnamon Gardens at Colombo. Clare, still emotional from the meeting with her mother; was grateful for his reticence. She escaped rather quickly to her room, where her bags had already been unpacked.

At its dormer window she stood listening to the coorooing of the fantails and the sudden flutter and flip-flap of their wings climbing the air from the yew-hedged garden. The sun, very low, was still shining through an elm tree. There was no wind, and her nerves sucked up repose in that pigeon-haunted stillness, scented so differently from Ceylon. Native air, deliciously sane, fresh and homespun, with a faint tang of burning leaves. She could see the threading blue smoke from where the gardeners had lighted a small bonfire in the orchard. And almost at once she lit a cigarette. The whole of Clare was in that simple action. She could never quite rest and be still, must always move on to that fuller savouring which for such natures ever recedes. A fantail on the gutter of the sloped stone roof watched her with a soft dark little eye, preening itself slightly. Beautifully white it was, and had a pride of body; so too had that small round mulberry tree which had dropped a ring of leaves, with their unders uppermost, spangling the grass. The last of the sunlight was stirring in what yellowish-green foliage was left, so that the tree had an enchanted look. Seventeen months since she had stood at this window and looked down over that mulberry tree at the fields and the rising coverts! Seventeen months of foreign skies and trees, foreign scents and sounds and waters. All new and rather exciting, tantalising, unsatisfying. No rest! Certainly none in the white house with the wide verandah she had occupied at Kandy. At first she had enjoyed, then she had wondered if she enjoyed, then she had known she was not enjoying, lastly she had hated it. And now it was all over and she was back! She flipped the ash off her cigarette and stretched herself, and the fantail rose with a fluster.

CHAPTER 3

Dinny was ‘seeing to’ Aunt Em. It was no mean process. With ordinary people one had question and answer and the thing was over. But with Lady Mont words were not consecutive like that. She stood with a verbena sachet in her hand, sniffing, while Dinny unpacked for her.

“This is delicious, Dinny. Clare looks rather yellow. It isn’t a baby, is it?”

“No, dear.”

“Pity! When we were in Ceylon everyone was havin’ babies. The baby elephants—so enticin’! In this room—we always played a game of feedin’ the Catholic priest with a basket from the roof. Your father used to be on the roof, and I was the priest. There was never anythin’ worth eatin’ in the basket. Your Aunt Wilmet was stationed in a tree to call ‘Cooee’ in case of Protestants.”

“‘Cooee’ was a bit premature, Aunt Em. Australia wasn’t discovered under Elizabeth.”

“No. Lawrence says the Protestants at that time were devils. So were the Catholics. So were the Mohammedans.”

Dinny winced and veiled her face with a corset belt.

“Where shall I put these undies?”

“So long as I see where. Don’t stoop too much! They were all devils then. Animals were treated terribly. Did Clare enjoy Ceylon?”

Dinny stood up with an armful of underthings.

“Not much.”

“Why not? Liver?”

“Auntie, you won’t say anything, except to Uncle Lawrence and Michael, if I tell you? There’s been a split.”

Lady Mont buried her nose in the verbena bag.

“Oh!” she said: “His mother looked it. D’you believe in ‘like mother like son’?”

“Not too much.”

“I always thought seventeen years’ difference too much, Dinny. Lawrence says people say: ‘Oh! Jerry Corven!’ and then don’t say. So, what was it?”

Dinny bent over a drawer and arranged the things.

“I can’t go into it, but he seems to be quite a beast.”

Lady Mont tipped the bag into the drawer, murmuring: “Poor dear Clare!”

“So, Auntie, she’s just to be home for her health.”

Lady Mont put her nose into a bowl of flowers. “Boswell and Johnson call them ‘God-eat-yers.’ They don’t smell. What disease could Clare have—nerves?”

“Climate, Auntie.”

“So many Anglo–Indians go back and back, Dinny.”

“I know, but for the present. Something’s bound to happen. So not even to Fleur, please.”

“Fleur will know whether I tell her or not. She’s like that. Has Clare a young man?”

“Oh! no!” And Dinny lifted a puce-coloured wrapper, recalling the expression of the young man when he was saying good-bye.

“On board ship,” murmured her Aunt dubiously.

Dinny changed the subject.

“Is Uncle Lawrence very political just now?”

“Yes, so borin’. Things always sound so when you talk about them. Is your candidate here safe, like Michael?”

“He’s new, but he’ll get in.”

“Married?”

“No.”

Lady Mont inclined her head slightly to one side and scrutinised her niece from under half-drooped lids.

Dinny took the last thing out of the trunk. It was a pot of antiphlogistine.

“That’s not British, Auntie.”

“For the chest. Delia puts it in. I’ve had it, years. Have you talked to your candidate in private?”

“I have.”

“How old is he?”

“Rather under forty, I should say.”

“Does he do anything besides?”

“He’s a K.C.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dornford.”

“There were Dornfords when I was a girl. Where was that? Ah! Algeciras! He was a Colonel at Gibraltar.”

“That would be his father, I expect.”

“Then he hasn’t any money.”

“Only what he makes at the Bar.”

“But they don’t—under forty.”

“He does, I think.”

“Energetic?”

“Very.”

“Fair?”

“No, darkish. He won the Bar point-to-point this year. Now, darling, will you have a fire at once, or last till dressing time?”

“Last. I want to see the baby.”

“All right, he ought to be just in from his pram. Your bathroom’s at the foot of these stairs, and I’ll wait for you in the nursery.”

The nursery was the same mullion-windowed, low-pitched room as that wherein Dinny and Aunt Em herself had received their first impressions of that jigsaw puzzle called life; and in it the baby was practising his totter. Whether he would be a Charwell or a Tasburgh when he grew up seemed as yet uncertain. His nurse, his aunt and his great-aunt stood, in triangular admiration, for him to fall alternatively into their outstretched hands.

“He doesn’t crow,” said Dinny.

“He does in the morning, Miss.”

“Down he goes!” said Lady Mont.

“Don’t cry, darling!”

“He never cries, Miss.”

“That’s Jean. Clare and I cried a lot till we were about seven.”

“I cried till I was fifteen,” said Lady Mont, “and I began again when I was forty-five. Did you cry, Nurse?”

“We were too large a family, my lady. There wasn’t room like.”

“Nanny had a lovely mother—five sisters as good as gold.”

The nurse’s fresh cheeks grew fresher; she drooped her chin, smiling, shy as a little girl.

“Take care of bow legs!” said Lady Mont: “That’s enough totterin’.”

The nurse, retrieving the still persistent baby, placed him in his cot, whence he frowned solemnly at Dinny, who said:

“Mother’s devoted to him. She thinks he’ll be like Hubert.”

Lady Mont made the sound supposed to attract babies.

“When does Jean come home again?”

“Not till Hubert’s next long leave.”

Lady Mont’s gaze rested on her niece.

“The rector says Alan has another year on the China station.”

Dinny, dangling a bead chain over the baby, paid no attention. Never since the summer evening last year, when she came back home after Wilfrid’s flight, had she made or suffered any allusion to her feelings. No one, perhaps not even she herself, knew whether she was heart-whole once more. It was, indeed, as if she had no heart. So long, so earnestly had she resisted its aching, that it had slunk away into the shadows of her inmost being, where even she could hardly feel it beating.

“What would you like to do now, Auntie? He has to go to sleep.”

“Take me round the garden.”

They went down and out on to the terrace.

“Oh!” said Dinny, with dismay, “Glover has gone and beaten the leaves off the little mulberry. They were so lovely, shivering on the tree and coming off in a ring on the grass. Really gardeners have no sense of beauty.”

“They don’t like sweepin’. Where’s the cedar I planted when I was five?”

They came on it round the corner of an old wall, a spreading youngster of nearly sixty, with flattening boughs gilded by the level sunlight.

“I should like to be buried under it, Dinny. Only I suppose they won’t. There’ll be something stuffy.”

“I mean to be burnt and scattered. Look at them ploughing in that field. I do love horses moving slowly against a skyline of trees.”

“‘The lowin’ kine,’” said Lady Mont irrelevantly.

A faint clink came from a sheepfold to the East.

“Listen, Auntie!”

Lady Mont thrust her arm within her niece’s.

“I’ve often thought,” she said, “that I should like to be a goat.”

“Not in England, tied to a stake and grazing in a mangy little circle.”

“No, with a bell on a mountain. A he-goat, I think, so as not to be milked.”

“Come and see our new cutting bed, Auntie. There’s nothing now, of course, but dahlias, godetias, chrysanthemums, Michaelmas daisies, and a few pentstemons and cosmias.”

“Dinny,” said Lady Mont, from among the dahlias, “about Clare? They say divorce is very easy now.”

“Until you try for it, I expect.”

“There’s desertion and that.”

“But you have to BE deserted.”

“Well, you said he made her.”

“It’s not the same thing, dear.”

“Lawyers are so fussy about the law. There was that magistrate with the long nose in Hubert’s extradition.”

“Oh! but he turned out quite human.”

“How was that?”

“Telling the Home Secretary that Hubert was speaking the truth.”

“A dreadful business,” murmured Lady Mont, “but nice to remember.”

“It had a happy ending,” said Dinny quickly.

Lady Mont stood, ruefully regarding her.

And Dinny, staring at the flowers, said suddenly: “Aunt Em, somehow there must be a happy ending for Clare.”

CHAPTER 4

The custom known as canvassing, more peculiar even than its name, was in full blast round Condaford. Every villager had been invited to observe how appropriate it would be if they voted for Dornford, and how equally appropriate it would be if they voted for Stringer. They had been exhorted publicly and vociferously, by ladies in cars, by ladies out of cars, and in the privacy of their homes by voices speaking out of trumpets. By newspaper and by leaflet they had been urged to perceive that they alone could save the country. They had been asked to vote early, and only just not asked to vote often. To their attention had been brought the startling dilemma that whichever way they voted the country would be saved. They had been exhorted by people who knew everything, it seemed, except how it would be saved. Neither the candidates nor their ladies, neither the mysterious disembodied voices, nor the still more incorporeal print, had made the faintest attempt to tell them that. It was better not; for, in the first place, no one knew. And, in the second place, why mention the particular when the general would serve? Why draw attention, even, to the fact that the general is made up of the particular; or to the political certainty that promise is never performance? Better, far better, to make large loose assertion, abuse the other side, and call the electors the sanest and soundest body of people in the world.

Dinny was not canvassing. She was ‘no good at it,’ she said; and, perhaps, secretly she perceived the peculiarity of the custom. Clare, if she noticed any irony about the business, was too anxious to be doing something to abstain. She was greatly helped by the way everybody took it. They had always been ‘canvassed,’ and they always would be. It was a harmless enough diversion to their ears, rather like the buzzing of gnats that did not bite. As to their votes, they would record them for quite other reasons—because their fathers had voted this or that before them, because of something connected with their occupation, because of their landlords, their churches, or their trades unions; because they wanted a change, while not expecting anything much from it; and not a few because of their common sense.

Clare, dreading questions, pattered as little as possible and came quickly to their babies or their health. She generally ended by asking what time they would like to be fetched. Noting the hour in a little book, she would come out not much the wiser. Being a Charwell—that is to say, no ‘foreigner’—she was taken as a matter of course; and though not, like Dinny, personally known to them all, she was part of an institution, Condaford without Charwells being still almost inconceivable.

She was driving back from this dutiful pastime towards the Grange about four o’clock on the Saturday before the election, when a voice from an overtaking two-seater called her name, and she saw young Tony Croom.

“What on earth are you doing here, Tony?”

“I couldn’t go any longer without a glimpse of you.”

“But, my dear boy, to come down here is too terribly pointed.”

“I know, but I’ve seen you.”

“You weren’t going to call, were you?”

“If I didn’t see you otherwise. Clare, you look so lovely!”

“That, if true, is not a reason for queering my pitch at home.”

“The last thing I want to do; but I’ve got to see you now and then, otherwise I shall go batty.”

His face was so earnest and his voice so moved, that Clare felt for the first time stirred in that hackneyed region, the heart.

“That’s bad,” she said; “because I’ve got to find my feet, and I can’t have complications.”

“Let me kiss you just once. Then I should go back happy.”

Still more stirred, Clare thrust forward her cheek.

“Well, quick!” she said.

He glued his lips to her cheek, but when he tried to reach her lips she drew back.

“No. Now Tony, you must go. If you’re to see me, it must be in Town. But what is the good of seeing me? It’ll only make us unhappy.”

“Bless you for that ‘us.’”

Clare’s brown eyes smiled; their colour was like that of a glass of Malaga wine held up to the light.

“Have you found a job?”

“There are none.”

“It’ll be better when the election’s over. I’M thinking of trying to get with a milliner.”

“You!”

“I must do something. My people here are as hard pressed as everybody else. Now, Tony, you said you’d go.”

“Promise to let me know the first day you come up.”

Clare nodded, and re-started her engine. As the car slid forward gently, she turned her face and gave him another smile.

He continued to stand with his hands to his head till the car rounded a bend and she was gone.

Turning the car into the stable yard, she was thinking ‘Poor boy!’ and feeling the better for it. Whatever her position in the eyes of the law, or according to morality, a young and pretty woman breathes more easily when inhaling the incense of devotion. She may have strict intentions, but she has also a sense of what is due to her, and a dislike of waste. Clare looked the prettier and felt the happier all that evening. But the night was ridden by the moon; nearly full, it soared up in front of her window, discouraging sleep. She got up and parted the curtains. Huddling into her fur coat, she stood at the window. There was evidently a frost, and a ground mist stretched like fleece over the fields. The tall elms, ragged-edged, seemed to be sailing slowly along over the white vapour. The earth out there was unknown by her, as if it had dropped from that moon. She shivered. It might be beautiful, but it was cold, uncanny; a frozen glamour. She thought of the nights in the Red Sea, when she lay with bedclothes thrown off, and the very moon seemed hot. On board that ship people had ‘talked’ about her and Tony—she had seen many signs of it, and hadn’t cared. Why should she? He had not even kissed her all those days. Not even the evening he came to her state-room and she had shown him photographs, and they had talked. A nice boy, modest and a gentleman! And if he was in love, now, she couldn’t help it—she hadn’t tried to ‘vamp’ him. As to what would happen, life always tripped one up, it seemed, whatever one did! Things must take care of themselves. To make resolutions, plans, lay down what was called ‘a line of conduct,’ was not the slightest use! She had tried that with Jerry. She shivered, then laughed, then went rigid with a sort of fury. No! If Tony expected her to rush into his arms he was very much mistaken. Sensual love! She knew it inside out. No, thank you! As that moonlight, now, she was cold! Impossible to speak of it even to her Mother, whatever she and Dad might be thinking.

Dinny must have told them something, for they had been most awfully decent. But even Dinny didn’t know. Nobody should ever know! If only she had money it wouldn’t matter. ‘Ruined life,’ of course, and all that, was just old-fashioned tosh. Life could always be amusing if one made it so. She was not going to skulk and mope. Far from that! But money she must somehow make. She shivered even in her fur coat. The moonlight seemed to creep into one’s bones. These old houses—no central heating, because they couldn’t afford to put it in! The moment the election was over she would go up to London and scout round. Fleur might know of something. If there was no future in hats, one might get a political secretaryship. She could type, she knew French well, people could read her handwriting. She could drive a car with anybody, or school a horse. She knew all about country house life, manners, and precedence. There must be lots of Members who wanted somebody like her, who could tell them how to dress, and how to decline this and that without anybody minding, and generally do their crossword puzzles for them. She’d had quite a lot of experience with dogs, and some with flowers, especially the arrangement of them in bowls and vases. And if it were a question of knowing anything about politics, she could soon mug that up. So, in that illusory cold moonshine, Clare could not see how they could fail to need her. With a salary and her own two hundred a year she could get along quite well! The moon, behind an elm tree now, no longer had its devastating impersonality, but rather an air of bright intrigue, peeping through those still thick boughs with a conspiring eye. She hugged herself, danced a few steps to warm her feet, and slipped back into her bed. . . .

Young Croom, in his borrowed two-seater, had returned to Town at an unobtrusive sixty miles an hour. His first kiss on Clare’s cold but glowing cheek had given him slight delirium. It was an immense step forward. He was not a vicious young man. That Clare was married was to him no advantage. But whether, if she had not been married, his feelings towards her would have been of quite the same brand, was a question he left unexamined. The subtle difference which creeps into the charm of a woman who has known physical love, and the sting which the knowledge of that implants in a man’s senses—such is food for a psychologist rather than for a straightforward young man really in love for the first time. He wanted her, as his wife if possible; if that were not possible, in any other way that was. He had been in Ceylon three years, hard-worked, seeing few white women, and none that he had cared for. His passion had, hitherto, been for polo, and his meeting with Clare had come just as he had lost both job and polo. Clare filled for him a yawning gap. As with Clare, so with him in the matter of money, only more so.

He had some two hundred pounds saved, and would then be ‘bang up against it’ unless he got a job. Having returned the two-seater to his friend’s garage, he considered where he could dine most cheaply, and decided on his club. He was practically living there, except for a bedroom in Ryder Street, where he slept and breakfasted on tea and boiled eggs. A simple room it was, on the ground floor, with a bed and a dress cupboard, looking out on the tall back of another building, the sort of room that his father, coming on the Town in the ‘nineties, had slept and breakfasted in for half the money.

On Saturday nights the Coffee House was deserted, save for a certain number of ‘old buffers’ accustomed to week-ending in St. James’s Street. Young Croom ordered the three-course dinner and ate it to the last crumb. He drank Bass, and went down to the smoking-room for a pipe. About to sink into an armchair, he noticed standing before the fire a tallish thin man with twisting dark eyebrows and a little white moustache, who was examining him through a tortoiseshell-rimmed monocle. Acting on the impulse of a lover craving connection with his lady, he said:

“Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you Sir Lawrence Mont?”

“That has been my lifelong conviction.”

Young Croom smiled.

“Then, sir, I met your niece, Lady Corven, coming home from Ceylon. She said you were a member here. My name’s Croom.”

“Ah!” said Sir Lawrence, dropping his eyeglass: “I probably knew your father—he was always here, before the war.”

“Yes, he put me down at birth. I believe I’m about the youngest in the Club.”

Sir Lawrence nodded. “So you met Clare. How was she?”

“All right, I think, sir.”

“Let’s sit down and talk about Ceylon. Cigar?”

“Thank you, sir, I have my pipe.”

“Coffee, anyway? Waiter, two coffees. My wife is down at Condaford staying with Clare’s people. An attractive young woman.”

Noting those dark eyes, rather like a snipe’s, fixed on him, young Croom regretted his impulse. He had gone red, but he said bravely:

“Yes, sir, I thought her delightful.”

“Do you know Corven?”

“No,” said young Croom shortly.

“Clever fellow. Did you like Ceylon?”

“Oh! yes. But it’s given me up.”

“Not going back?”

“Afraid not.”

“It’s a long time since I was there. India has rather smothered it. Been in India?”

“No, sir.”

“Difficult to know how far the people of India really want to cut the painter. Seventy per cent peasants! Peasants want stable conditions and a quiet life. I remember in Egypt before the war there was a strong nationalist agitation, but the fellaheen were all for Kitchener and stable British rule. We took Kitchener away and gave them unstable conditions in the war, and so they went on the other tack. What were you doing in Ceylon?”

“Running a tea plantation. But they took up economy, amalgamated three plantations, and I wasn’t wanted any more. Do you think there’s going to be a recovery, sir? I can’t understand economics.”

“Nobody can. There are dozens of causes of the present state of things, and people are always trying to tie it to one. Take England: There’s the knock-out of Russian trade, the comparative independence of European countries, the great shrinkage of Indian and Chinese trade; the higher standard of British living since the war; the increase of national expenditure from two hundred-odd millions to eight hundred millions, which means nearly six hundred millions a year less to employ labour with. When they talk of over-production being the cause, it certainly doesn’t apply to us. We haven’t produced so little for a long time past. Then there’s dumping, and shocking bad organisation, and bad marketing of what little food we produce. And there’s our habit of thinking it’ll be ‘all right on the night,’ and general spoiled-child attitude. Well, those are all special English causes, except that the too high standard of living and the spoiled-child attitude are American too.”

“And the other American causes, sir?”

“The Americans certainly have over-produced and over-speculated. And they’ve been living so high that they’ve mortgaged their future—instalment system and all that. Then they’re sitting on gold, and gold doesn’t hatch out. And, more than all, they don’t realise yet that the money they lent to Europe during the war was practically money they’d made out of the war. When they agree to general cancellation of debts they’ll be agreeing to general recovery, including their own.”

“But will they ever agree?”

“You never know what the Americans will do, they’re looser-jointed than we of the old world. They’re capable of the big thing, even in their own interests. Are you out of a job?”

“Very much so.”

“What’s your record?”

“I was at Wellington and at Cambridge for two years. Then this tea thing came along, and I took it like a bird.”

“What age are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Any notion of what you want to do?”

Young Croom sat forward.

“Really, sir, I’d have a shot at anything. But I’m pretty good with horses. I thought possibly I might get into a training stable; or with a breeder; or get a riding mastership.”

“Quite an idea. It’s queer about the horse—he’s coming in as he goes out. I’ll talk to my cousin Jack Muskham—he breeds bloodstock. And he’s got a bee in his bonnet about the re-introduction of Arab blood into the English thoroughbred. In fact he’s got some Arab mares coming over. Just possibly he might want someone.”

Young Croom flushed and smiled.

“That would be frightfully kind of you, sir. It sounds ideal. I’ve had Arab polo ponies.”

“Well,” murmured Sir Lawrence thoughtfully, “I don’t know that anything excites my sympathy more than a man who really wants a job and can’t find one. We must get this election over first, though. Unless the socialists are routed horse-breeders will have to turn their stock into potted meat. Imagine having the dam of a Derby winner between brown bread and butter for your tea—real ‘Gentleman’s Relish!’”

He got up.

“I’ll say good-night, now. My cigar will just last me home.”

Young Croom rose too, and remained standing till that spare and active figure had vanished.

‘Frightfully nice old boy!’ he thought, and in the depths of his armchair he resigned himself to hope and to Clare’s face wreathed by the fumes of his pipe.

CHAPTER 5

On that cold and misty evening, which all the newspapers had agreed was to ‘make history,’ the Charwells sat in the drawing-room at Condaford round the portable wireless, a present from Fleur. Would the voice breathe o’er Eden, or would it be the striking of Fate’s clock? Not one of those five but was solemnly convinced that the future of Great Britain hung in the balance; convinced, too, that their conviction was detached from class or party. Patriotism divorced from thought of vested interest governed, as they supposed, their mood. And if they made a mistake in so thinking, quite a number of other Britons were making it too. Across Dinny’s mind, indeed, did flit the thought: ‘Does anyone know what will save the country and what won’t?’ But, even by her, time and tide, incalculably rolling, swaying and moulding the lives of nations, was ungauged. Newspapers and politicians had done their work and stamped the moment for her as a turning point. In a sea-green dress, she sat, close to the ‘present from Fleur,’ waiting to turn it on at ten o’clock, and regulate its stridency. Aunt Em was working at a new piece of French tapestry, her slight aquilinity emphasised by tortoise-shell spectacles. The General nervously turned and re-turned The Times and kept taking out his watch. Lady Charwell sat still and a little forward, like a child in Sunday School before she has become convinced that she is going to be bored. And Clare lay on the sofa, with the dog Foch on her feet.

“Time, Dinny,” said the General; “turn the thing on.”

Dinny fingered a screw, and ‘the thing’ burst into music. “‘Rings on our fingers and bells on our toes,’” she murmured, “‘We have got music wherever we goes.’”

The music stopped, and the voice spoke:

“This is the first election result: Hornsey . . . Conservative, no change.”

The General added: “H’m!” and the music began again.

Aunt Em, looking at the portable, said: “Coax it, Dinny. That burrin’!”

“It always has that, Auntie.”

“Blore does something to ours with a penny. Where is Hornsey—Isle of Wight?”

“Middlesex, darling.”

“Oh! yes! I was thinkin’ of Southsea. There he goes again.”

“These are some more election results. . . . Conservative, gain from Labour. . . . Conservative, no change. . . . Conservative, gain from Labour.”

The General added: “Ha!” and the music began again.

“What nice large majorities!” said Lady Mont: “Gratifyin’!”

Clare got off the sofa and squatted on a footstool against her mother’s knees. The General had dropped The Times. The ‘voice’ spoke again:

“. . . Liberal National, gain from Labour. . . . Conservative, no change. . . . Conservative, gain from Labour.”

Again and again the music spurted up and died away; and the voice spoke.

Clare’s face grew more and more vivid, and above her Lady Charwell’s pale and gentle face wore one long smile. From time to time the General said: “By George!” and “This is something like!”

And Dinny thought: ‘Poor Labour!’

On and on and on the voice breathed o’er Eden.

“Crushin’,” said Lady Mont: “I’m gettin’ sleepy.”

“Go to bed, Auntie. I’ll put a slip under your door when I come up.”

Lady Charwell, too, got up. When they were gone, Clare went back to the sofa and seemed to fall asleep. The General sat on, hypnotised by the chant of victory. Dinny, with knees crossed and eyes closed, was thinking: ‘Will it really make a difference; and, if it does, shall I care? Where is HE? Listening as we are? Where? Where?’ Not so often now, but quite often enough, that sense of groping for Wilfrid returned to her. In all these sixteen months since he left her she had found no means of hearing of him. For all she knew he might be dead. Once—only once—she had broken her resolve never to speak of her disaster, and had asked Michael. Compson Grice, his publisher, had, it seemed received a letter from him written in Bangkok, which said he was well and had begun to write. That was nine months ago. The veil, so little lifted, had dropped again. Heartache—well, she was used to it.

“Dad, it’s two o’clock. It’ll be like this all the time now. Clare’s asleep.”

“I’m not,” said Clare.

“You ought to be. I’ll let Foch out for his run, and we’ll all go up.”

The General rose.

“Enough’s as good as a feast. I suppose we’d better.”

Dinny opened the French window and watched the dog Foch trotting out in semblance of enthusiasm. It was cold, with a ground mist, and she shut the window. If she didn’t he would neglect his ritual and with more than the semblance of enthusiasm trot in again. Having kissed her father and Clare, she turned out the lights and waited in the hall. The wood fire had almost died. She stood with her foot on the stone hearth, thinking. Clare had spoken of trying to get a secretaryship to some new Member of Parliament. Judging by the returns that were coming in, there would be plenty of them. Why not to their own new member? He had dined with them, and she had sat next him. A nice man, well read, not bigoted. He even sympathised with Labour, but did not think they knew their way about as yet. In fact he was rather notably what the drunken youth in the play called: ‘A Tory Socialist.’ He had opened out to her and been very frank and pleasant. An attractive man, with his crisp dark hair, brown complexion, little dark moustache and rather high soft voice; a good sort, energetic and upright-looking. But probably he already had a secretary. However, if Clare was in earnest, one could ask. She crossed the hall to the garden door. There was a seat in the porch outside, and under it Foch would be crouched, waiting to be let in. Sure enough, he emerged, fluttering his tail, and padded towards the dogs’ communal water-bowl. How cold and silent! Nothing on the road; even the owls quiet; the garden and the fields frozen, moonlit, still, away up to that long line of covert! England silvered and indifferent to her fate, disbelieving in the Voice o’er Eden; old and permanent and beautiful, even though the pound had gone off gold. Dinny gazed at the unfeverish night. Men and their policies—how little they mattered, how soon they passed, a dissolving dew on the crystal immensity of God’s toy! How queer—the passionate intensity of one’s heart, and the incalculable cold callousness of Time and Space! To join, to reconcile? . . .

She shivered and shut the door.

At breakfast the next morning she said to Clare:

“Shall we strike while the iron’s hot, and go and see Mr. Dornford?”

“Why?”

“In case he wants a secretary, now he’s in.”

“Oh! Is he in?”

“Very much so.”

Dinny read the figures. The usual rather formidable Liberal opposition had been replaced by a mere five thousand Labour votes.

“The word ‘national’ is winning this election,” said Clare. “Where I went canvassing in the town they were all Liberals. I just used the word ‘national,’ and they fell.”

Hearing that the new Member would be at his headquarters all the morning, the sisters started about eleven o’clock. There was so much coming and going round the doors that they did not like to enter.

“I do hate asking for things,” said Clare.

Dinny, who hated it quite as much, answered:

“Wait here and I’ll just go in and congratulate him. I might have a chance of putting in a word. He’s seen you, of course.”

“Oh! yes, he’s seen me all right.”

Eustace Dornford, K.C., new member elect, was sitting in a room that seemed all open doors, running his eye over the lists his agent was putting on the table before him. From one of those doors Dinny could see his riding boots under the table, and his bowler hat, gloves and riding whip upon it. Now that she was nearly in the presence it seemed impossible to intrude at such a moment, and she was just slipping away when he looked up.

“Excuse me a moment, Minns. Miss Cherrell!”

She stopped and turned. He was smiling and looking pleased.

“Anything I can do for you?”

She put out her hand.

“I’m awfully glad you’ve won. My sister and I just wanted to congratulate you.”

He squeezed her hand, and Dinny thought: ‘Oh! dear! this is the last moment to ask him,’ but she said:

“It’s perfectly splendid, there’s never been such a majority here.”

“And never will be again. That’s my luck. Where’s your sister?”

“In the car.”

“I’d like to thank her for canvassing.”

“Oh!” said Dinny, “she enjoyed it;” and, suddenly feeling that it was now or never, added: “She’s at a loose end, you know, badly wants something to do. Mr. Dornford, you don’t think—this is too bad—but I suppose she wouldn’t be of any use to you as a secretary, would she? There, it’s out! She does know the county pretty well; she can type, and speak French, and German a little, if that’s any use.” It had come with a rush, and she stood looking at him ruefully. But his eager expression had not changed.

“Let’s go and see her,” he said.

Dinny thought: ‘Gracious! I hope he hasn’t fallen in love with her!’ and she glanced at him sidelong. Still smiling, his face looked shrewd now. Clare was standing beside the car. ‘I wish,’ thought Dinny, ‘I had her coolness.’ Then she stood still and watched. All this triumphal business, these people coming and going, those two talking so readily and quickly; the clear and sparkling morning! He came back to her.

“Thank you most awfully, Miss Cherrell. It’ll do admirably. I did want someone, and your sister is very modest.”

“I thought you’d never forgive me for asking at such a moment.”

“Always delighted for you to ask anything at any moment. I must go back now, but I’ll hope to see you again very soon.”

Gazing after him as he re-entered the building, she thought: ‘He has very nicely cut riding breeches!’ And she got into the car.

“Dinny,” said Clare, with a laugh, “he’s in love with you.”

“What!”

“I asked for two hundred, and he made it two hundred and fifty at once. How did you do it in one evening?”

“I didn’t. It’s you he’s in love with, I’m afraid.”

“No, no, my dear. I have eyes, and I know it’s you; just as you knew that Tony Croom was in love with me.”

“I could see that.”

“And I could see this.”

Dinny said quietly: “That’s absurd. When do you begin?”

“He’s going back to Town today. He lives in the Temple—Harcourt Buildings. I shall go up this afternoon and start in the day after tomorrow.”

“Where shall you live?”

“I think I shall take an unfurnished room or a small studio, and decorate and furnish it gradually myself. It’ll be fun.”

“Aunt Em is going back this afternoon. She would put you up till you find it.”

“Well,” said Clare, pondering; “perhaps.”

Just before they reached home Dinny said:

“What about Ceylon, Clare? Have you thought any more?”

“What’s the good of thinking? I suppose he’ll do something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t care.”

“Haven’t you had a letter?”

“No.”

“Well, darling, be careful.”

Clare shrugged: “Oh! I’ll be careful.”

“Could he get leave if he wanted?”

“I expect so.”

“You’ll keep in touch with me, won’t you?”

Clare leaned sideways from the wheel and gave her cheek a kiss.

CHAPTER 6

Three days after their meeting at the Coffee House, young Croom received a letter from Sir Lawrence Mont, saying that his cousin Muskham was not expecting the Arab mares till the spring. In the meantime he would make a note of Mr. Croom and a point of seeing him soon. Did Mr. Croom know any vernacular Arabic?

‘No,’ thought young Croom, ‘but I know Stapylton.’

Stapylton, of the Lancers, who had been his senior at Wellington, was home from India on leave. A noted polo player, he would be sure to know the horse jargon of the East; but, having broken his thigh-bone schooling a steeplechaser, he would keep; the business of finding an immediate ‘job of work’ would not. Young Croom continued his researches. Everyone said: ‘Wait till the election’s over!’

On the morning after the election, therefore, he issued from Ryder Street with the greater expectation, and, on the evening after, returned to the Coffee House, with the less, thinking: ‘I might just as well have gone to Newmarket and seen the Cambridgeshire.’

The porter handed him a note, and his heart began to thump. Seeking a corner, he read:

“DEAR TONY—

“I have got the job of secretary to our new member, Eustace Dornford, who’s a K.C. in the Temple. So I’ve come up to Town. Till I find a tent of my own, I shall be at my Aunt Lady Mont’s in Mount Street. I hope you’ve been as lucky. I promised to let you know when I came up; but I adjure you to sense and not sensibility, and to due regard for pride and prejudice.

“Your shipmate and well-wisher,

“CLARE CORVEN.”

‘The darling!’ he thought. ‘What luck!’ He read the note again, placed it beneath the cigarette case in his left-hand waistcoat pocket, and went into the smoking-room. There, on a sheet of paper stamped with the Club’s immemorial design, he poured out an ingenuous heart:

“DARLING CLARE,—

“Your note has perked me up no end. That you will be in Town is magnificent news. Your uncle has been very kind to me, and I shall simply have to call and thank him. So do look out for me about six o’clock tomorrow. I spend all my time hunting a job, and am beginning to realise what it means to poor devils to be turned down day after day. When my pouch is empty, and that’s not far away, it’ll be even worse for me. No dole for this child, unfortunately. I hope the pundit you’re going to take in hand is a decent sort. I always think of M.P.‘s as a bit on the wooden side. And somehow I can’t see you among Bills and petitions and letters about public-house licences and so forth. However, I think you’re splendid to want to be independent. What a thumping majority! If they can’t do things with that behind them, they can’t do things at all. It’s quite impossible for me not to be in love with you, you know, and to long to be with you all day and all night, too. But I’m going to be as good as I can, because the very last thing I want is to cause you uneasiness of any sort. I think of you all the time, even when I’m searching the marble countenance of some fish-faced blighter to see if my piteous tale is weakening his judgment. The fact is I love you terribly. To-morrow, Thursday, about six! “Good-night, dear and lovely one,

“YOUR TONY.”

Having looked up Sir Lawrence’s number in Mount Street, he addressed the note, licked the envelope with passion, and went out to post it himself. Then, suddenly, he did not feel inclined to return to the Coffee House. The place had a grudge against his state of mind. Clubs were so damned male, and their whole attitude to women so after-dinnerish—half contempt, half lechery! Funk-holes they were, anyway, full of comfort, secured against women, immune from writs; and men all had the same armchair look once they got inside. The Coffee House, too, about the oldest of all clubs, was stuffed with regular buffers, men you couldn’t imagine outside a club. ‘No!’ he thought. ‘I’ll have a chop somewhere, and go to that thing at Drury Lane.’

He got a seat rather far back in the upper boxes, but, his sight being very good, he saw quite well. He was soon absorbed. He had been out of England long enough to have some sentiment about her. This pictorial pageant of her history for the last thirty years moved him more than he would have confessed to anyone sitting beside him. Boer war, death of the Queen, sinking of the Titanic, Great War, Armistice, health to 1931—if anyone asked him afterwards, he would probably say: ‘Marvellous! but gave me the pip rather!’ While sitting there it seemed more than the ‘pip’; the heartache of a lover, who wants happiness with his mistress and cannot reach it; the feeling of one who tries to stand upright and firm and is for ever being swayed this way and that. The last words rang in his ears as he went out: ‘Greatness and dignity and peace.’ Moving and damned ironical! He took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. The night was dry and he walked, threading his way through the streams of traffic, with the melancholy howling of street-singers in his ears. Sky-signs and garbage! People rolling home in their cars, and homeless night-birds! ‘Greatness and dignity and peace!’

‘I must absolutely have a drink,’ he thought. The Club seemed possible again now, even inviting, and he made towards it. ‘“Farewell, Piccadilly! Good-bye, Leicester Square!”’ Marvellous that scene, where those Tommies marched up in a spiral through the dark mist, whistling; while in the lighted front of the stage three painted girls rattled out: ‘“We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go.”’ And from the boxes on the stage at the sides people looked down and clapped! The whole thing there! The gaiety on those girls’ painted faces getting more and more put-on and heart-breaking! He must go again with Clare! Would it move her? And suddenly he perceived that he didn’t know. What did one know about anyone, even the woman one loved? His cigarette was scorching his lip, and he spat out the butt. That scene with the honeymooning couple leaning over the side of the Titantic, everything before them, and nothing before them but the cold deep sea! Did that couple know anything except that they desired each other? Life was damned queer, when you thought about it! He turned up the Coffee House steps, feeling as if he had lived long since he went down them. . . .

It was just six o’clock when he rang the bell at Mount Street on the following day.

A butler, with slightly raised eyebrows, opened the door.

“Is Sir Lawrence Mont at home?”

“No, sir. Lady Mont is in, sir.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know Lady Mont. I wonder if I could see Lady Corven for a moment?”

One of the butler’s eyebrows rose still higher. ‘Ah!’ he seemed to be thinking.

“If you’ll give me your name, sir.”

Young Croom produced a card.

“‘Mr. James Bernard Croom,’” chanted the butler.

“Mr. Tony Croom, tell her, please.”

“Quite! If you’ll wait in here a moment. Oh! here is Lady Corven.”

A voice from the stairs said:

“Tony? What punctuality! Come up and meet my Aunt.”

She was leaning over the stair-rail, and the butler had disappeared.

“Put your hat down. How can you go about without a coat? I shiver all the time.”

Young Croom came close below her.

“Darling!” he murmured.

She placed one finger to her lips, then stretched it down to him, so that he could just reach it with his own.

“Come along!” She had opened a door when he reached the top, and was saying: “This is a shipmate, Aunt Em. He’s come to see Uncle Lawrence. Mr. Croom, my Aunt, Lady Mont.”

Young Croom was aware of a presence slightly swaying towards him. A voice said: “Ah! Ships! Of course! How d’you do?”

Young Croom, aware that he had been ‘placed,’ saw Clare regarding him with a slightly mocking smile. If only they could be alone five minutes, he would kiss that smile off her face! He would—!

“Tell me about Ceylon, Mr. Craven.”

“Croom, Auntie. Tony Croom. Better call him Tony. It isn’t his name, but everybody does.”

“Tony! Always heroes. I don’t know why.”

“This Tony is quite ordinary.”

“Ceylon. Did you know her there, Mr.—Tony?”

“No. We only met on the ship.”

“Ah! Lawrence and I used to sleep on deck. That was in the ‘naughty nineties.’ The river here used to be full of punts, I remember.”

“It still is, Aunt Em.”

Young Croom had a sudden vision of Clare and himself in a punt up a quiet backwater. He roused himself and said:

“I went to Cavalcade last night. Great!”

“Ah!” said Lady Mont. “That reminds me.” She left the room.

Young Croom sprang up.

“Tony! Behave!”

“But surely that’s what she went for!”

“Aunt Em is extraordinarily kind, and I’m not going to abuse her kindness.”

“But, Clare, you don’t know what—”

“Yes, I do. Sit down again.”

Young Croom obeyed.

“Now listen, Tony! I’ve had enough physiology to last me a long time. If you and I are going to be pals, it’s got to be platonic.”

“Oh, God!” said young Croom.

“But it’s got to; or else—we simply aren’t going to see each other.”

Young Croom sat very still with his eyes fixed on hers, and there passed through her the thought: ‘It’s going to torture him. He looks too nice for that. I don’t believe we ought to see each other.’

“Look!” she said, gently, “you want to help me, don’t you? There’s lots of time, you know. Some day—perhaps.”

Young Croom grasped the arms of his chair. His eyes had a look of pain.

“Very well,” he said slowly, “anything so long as I can see you. I’ll wait till it means something more than physiology to you.”

Clare sat examining the glacé toe of her slowly wiggling shoe; suddenly she looked straight into his brooding eyes.

“If,” she said, “I had not been married, you would wait cheerfully and it wouldn’t hurt you. Think of me like that.”

“Unfortunately I can’t. Who could?”

“I see. I am fruit, not blossom—tainted by physiology.”

“Don’t! Oh! Clare, I will be anything you want to you. And if I’m not always as cheery as a bird, forgive me.”

She looked at him through her eyelashes and said: “Good!”

Then came silence, during which she was conscious that he was fixing her in his mind from her shingled dark head to her glacé kid toe. She had not lived with Jerry Corven without having been made conscious of every detail of her body. She could not help its grace or its provocation. She did not want to torture him, but she could not find it unpleasant that she did. Queer how one could be sorry and yet pleased, and, withal, sceptical and a little bitter. Give yourself, and after a few months how much would he want you! She said abruptly:

“Well, I’ve found rooms—a quaint little hole—used to be an antique shop, in a disused mews.”

He said eagerly: “Sounds jolly. When are you going in?”

“Next week.”

“Can I help?”

“If you can distemper walls.”

“Rather! I did all my bungalow in Ceylon, two or three times over.”

“We should have to work in the evenings, because of my job.”

“What about your boss? Is he decent?”

“Very, and in love with my sister. At least, I think so.”

“Oh!” said young Croom dubiously.

Clare smiled. He was so obviously thinking: ‘Could a man be that when he sees YOU every day?’

“When can I come first?”

“To-morrow evening, if you like. It’s 2, Melton Mews, off Malmesbury Square. I’ll get the stuff in the morning, and we’ll begin upstairs. Say six-thirty.”

“Splendid!”

“Only, Tony—no importunities. ‘Life is real, life is earnest.’”

Grinning ruefully, he put his hand on his heart.

“And you must go now. I’ll take you down and see if my Uncle’s come in.”

Young Croom stood up.

“What is happening about Ceylon?” he said, abruptly. “Are you being worried?”

Clare shrugged. “Nothing is happening so far.”

“That can’t possibly last. Have you thought things out?”

“Thinking won’t help me. It’s quite likely he’ll do nothing.”

“I can’t bear your being—” he stopped.

“Come along,” said Clare, and led the way downstairs.

“I don’t think I’ll try to see your Uncle,” said young Croom. “To-morrow at half-past six, then.” He raised her hand to his lips, and marched to the door. There he turned. She was standing with her head a little on one side, smiling. He went out, distracted.

A young man, suddenly awakened amid the doves of Cytherea, conscious for the first time of the mysterious magnetism which radiates from what the vulgar call ‘a grass widow,’ and withheld from her by scruples or convention, is to be pitied. He has not sought his fate. It comes on him by stealth, bereaving him ruthlessly of all other interest in life. It is an obsession replacing normal tastes with a rapturous aching. Maxims such as ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife,’ ‘Blessed are the pure in heart,’ become singularly academic. Young Croom had been brought up to the tinkling of the school bell: ‘Play the game!’ He now perceived its strange inadequacy. What WAS the game? Here was she, young and lovely, fleeing from a partner seventeen years older than herself, because he was a brute; she hadn’t said so, but of course he must be! Here was himself, desperately in love with her, and liked by her—not in the same way, but still as much as could be expected! And nothing to come of it but tea together! There was a kind of sacrilege in such waste.

Thus preoccupied he passed a man of middle height and alert bearing, whose rather cat-like eyes and thin lips were set into a brown face with the claws of many little wrinkles, and who turned to look after him with a slight contraction of the mouth which might have been a smile.

CHAPTER 7

After young Croom had gone Clare stood for a moment in the hall recollecting the last time she had gone out of that front door, in a fawn-coloured suit and a little brown hat, between rows of people saying: “Good luck!” and “Good-bye, darling!” and “Give my love to Paris!” Eighteen months ago, and so much in between! Her lip curled, and she went into her Uncle’s study.

“Oh! Uncle Lawrence, you ARE in! Tony Croom’s been here to see you.”

“That rather pleasant young man without occupation?”

“Yes. He wanted to thank you.”

“For nothing, I’m afraid.” And Sir Lawrence’s quick dark eyes, like a snipe’s or woodcock’s, roved sceptically over his pretty niece. She was not, like Dinny, a special favourite, but she was undoubtedly attractive. It was early days to have messed up her marriage; Em had told him and said that it wasn’t to be mentioned. Well, Jerry Corven! People had always shrugged and hinted. Too bad! But no real business of his.

A subdued voice from the door said:

“Sir Gerald Corven has called, Sir Lawrence.”

Involuntarily Sir Lawrence put his finger to his lips. The butler subdued his voice still further.

“I put him in the little room and said I would see if Lady Corven was in.”

Sir Lawrence noted Clare’s hands hard pressed down on the back of the chair behind which she was standing.

“ARE you in, Clare?”

She did not answer, but her face was hard and pale as stone.

“A minute, Blore. Come back when I ring.”

The butler withdrew.

“Now, my dear?”

“He must have taken the next boat. Uncle, I don’t want to see him.”

“If we only say you’re out, he’ll probably come again.”

Clare threw back her head. “Well, I’ll see him!”

Sir Lawrence felt a little thrill.

“If you’d tell me what to say, I’d see him for you.”

“Thank you, Uncle, but I don’t see why you should do my dirty work.”

Sir Lawrence thought: ‘Thank God!’

“I’ll be handy in case you want me. Good luck, my dear!” And he went out.

Clare moved over to the fire; she wanted the bell within reach. She had the feeling, well known to her, of settling herself in the saddle for a formidable jump. ‘He shan’t touch me, anyway,’ she thought. She heard Blore’s voice say:

“Sir Gerald Corven, my lady.” Quaint! Announcing a husband to his wife! But staff knew everything!

Without looking she saw perfectly well where he was standing. A surge of shamed anger stained her cheeks. He had fascinated her; he had used her as every kind of plaything. He had—!

His voice, cuttingly controlled, said:

“Well, my dear, you were very sudden.” Neat and trim, as ever, and like a cat, with that thin-lipped smile and those daring despoiling eyes!

“What do you want?”

“Only yourself.”

“You can’t have me.”

“Absurd!”

He made the quickest kind of movement and seized her in his arms. Clare bent her head back and put her finger on the bell.

“Move back, or I ring!” and she put her other hand between his face and hers. “Stand over there and I’ll talk to you, otherwise you must go.”

“Very well! But it’s ridiculous.”

“Oh! Do you think I should have gone if I hadn’t been in earnest?”

“I thought you were just riled, and I don’t wonder. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no good discussing what happened. I know you, and I’m not coming back to you.”

“My dear, you have my apology, and I give you my word against anything of the sort again.”

“How good of you!”

“It was only an experiment. Some women adore it, if not at the time.”

“You are a beast.”

“And beauty married me. Come, Clare, don’t be silly, and make us a laughing-stock! You can fix your own conditions.”

“And trust you to keep them! Besides, that’s not my idea of a life. I’m only twenty-four.”

The smile left his lips.

“I see. I noticed a young man come out of this house. Name and estate?”

“Tony Croom. Well?”

He walked over to the window, and after a moment’s contemplation of the street, turned and said:

“You have the misfortune to be my wife.”

“So I was thinking.”

“Quite seriously, Clare, come back to me.”

“Quite seriously, no.”

“I have an official position, and I can’t play about with it. Look at me!” He came closer. “I may be all you think me, but I’m neither a humbug nor old-fashioned. I don’t trade on my position, or on the sanctity of marriage, or any of that stuff. But they still pay attention to that sort of thing in the Service, and I can’t afford to let you divorce me.”

“I didn’t expect it.”

“What then?”

“I know nothing except that I’m not coming back.”

“Just because of—?”

“And a great deal else.” The cat-like smile had come back and prevented her from reading what he was thinking.

“Do you want me to divorce you?”

Clare shrugged. “You have no reason.”

“So you would naturally say.”

“And mean.”

“Now look here, Clare, this is all absurd, and quite unworthy of anyone with your sense and knowledge of things. You can’t be a perpetual grass widow. You didn’t dislike the life out there.”

“There are some things that can’t be done to me, and you have done them.”

“I’ve said that they shan’t be done again.”

“And I’ve said that I can’t trust you.”

“This is going round the mulberry bush. Are you going to live on your people?”

“No. I’ve got a job.”

“Oh! What?”

“Secretary to our new Member.”

“You’ll be sick of that in no time.”

“I don’t think so.”

He stood staring at her without his smile. For a moment she could read his thoughts, for his face had the expression which preludes sex. Suddenly he said: “I won’t stand for another man having you.”

It was a comfort to have seen for once the bottom of his mind. She did not answer.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I meant it.”

“I could see that.”

“You’re a stony little devil.”

“I wish I had been.”

He took a turn up and down the room, and came to a stand dead in front of her.

“Look at me! I’m not going back without you. I’m staying at the Bristol. Be sensible, there’s a darling, and come to me there. We’ll start again. I’ll be ever so nice to you.”

Her control gave way, and she cried out: “Oh, for God’s sake, understand! You killed all the feeling I had for you.”

His eyes dilated and then narrowed, his lips became a line. He looked like a horse-breaker.

“And understand ME,” he said, very low, “you either come back to me or I divorce you. I won’t leave you here, to kick your heels.”

“I’m sure you’ll have the approval of every judicious husband.”

The smile reappeared on his lips.

“For that,” he said, “I’m going to have a kiss.” And before she could stop him he had fastened his lips on hers. She tore herself away and pressed the bell. He went quickly to the door.

“Au revoir!” he said, and went out.

Clare wiped her lips. She felt bewildered and exhausted, and quite ignorant whether to him or to her the day had gone.

She stood leaning her forehead on her hands over the fire, and became aware that Sir Lawrence had come back and was considerately saying nothing.

“Awfully sorry, Uncle; I shall be in my digs next week.”

“Have a cigarette, my dear.”

Clare took the cigarette, and inhaled its comfort. Her uncle had seated himself and she was conscious of the quizzical expression of his eyebrows.

“Conference had its usual success?”

Clare nodded.

“The elusive formula. The fact is, human beings are never satisfied with what they don’t want, however cleverly it’s put. Is it to be continued in our next?”

“Not so far as I’m concerned.”

“Pity there are always two parties to a conference.”

“Uncle Lawrence,” she said suddenly, “what is the law of divorce now?”

The baronet uncrossed his long thin legs.

“I’ve never had any particular truck with it. I believe it’s less old-fashioned than it was, but see Whitaker.” He reached for the red-backed volume. “Page 258—here you are, my dear.”

Clare read in silence, while he gazed at her ruefully. She looked up and said.

“Then, if I want him to divorce me, I’ve got to commit adultery.”

“That is, I believe, the elegant way they put it. In the best circles, however, the man does the dirty work.”

“Yes, but he won’t. He wants me back. Besides, he’s got his position to consider.”

“There is that, of course,” said Sir Lawrence, thoughtfully; “a career in this country is a tender plant.”

Clare closed the Whitaker.

“If it weren’t for my people,” she said, “I’d give him cause tomorrow and have done with it.”

“You don’t think a better way would be to give partnership another trial?”

Clare shook her head.

“I simply couldn’t.”

“That’s that, then,” said Sir Lawrence, “and it’s an awkward ‘that.’ What does Dinny say?”

“I haven’t discussed it with her. She doesn’t know he’s here.”

“At present, then, you’ve no one to advise you?”

“No. Dinny knows why I left, that’s all.”

“I should doubt if Jerry Corven is a very patient man.”

Clare laughed.

“We’re neither of us long-suffering.”

“Do you know where he is staying?”

“At the Bristol.”

“It might,” said Sir Lawrence slowly, “be worth while to keep an eye on him.”

Clare shivered. “It’s rather degrading; besides, Uncle, I don’t want to hurt his career. He’s very able, you know.”

Sir Lawrence shrugged. “To me,” he said, “and to all your kin, his career is nothing to your good name. How long has he got over here?”

“Not long, I should think.”

“Would you like me to see him, and try to arrange that you go your own ways?”

Clare was silent, and Sir Lawrence, watching her, thought: ‘Attractive, but a lot of naughty temper. Any amount of spirit, and no patience at all.’ Then she said:

“It was all my fault, nobody wanted me to marry him. I hate to bother you. Besides, he wouldn’t consent.”

“You never know,” murmured Sir Lawrence. “If I get a natural chance, shall I?”

“It would be lovely of you, only—”

“All right, then. In the meantime young men without jobs—are they wise?”

Clare laughed. “Oh, I’ve ‘larned’ him. Well, thank you frightfully, Uncle Lawrence. You’re a great comfort. I was an awful fool; but Jerry has a sort of power, you know; and I’ve always liked taking risks. I don’t see how I can be my mother’s daughter, she hates them; and Dinny only takes them on principle.” She sighed. “I won’t bore you any more now.” And, blowing a kiss, she went out.

Sir Lawrence stayed in his armchair thinking: ‘Putting my oar in! A nasty mess, and going to be nastier! Still, at her age something’s got to be done. I must talk to Dinny.’

CHAPTER 8

From Condaford the hot airs of election time had cleared away, and the succeeding atmosphere was crystallised in the General’s saying:

“Well, those fellows got their deserts.”

“Doesn’t it make you tremble, Dad, to think what THESE fellows’ deserts will be if they don’t succeed in putting it over now?”

The General smiled.

“‘Sufficient unto the day,’ Dinny. Has Clare settled down?”

“She’s in her diggings. Her work so far seems to have been writing letters of thanks to people who did the dirty work at the cross-roads.”

“Cars? Does she like Dornford?”

“She says he’s quite amazingly considerate.”

“His father was a good soldier. I was in his brigade in the Boer War for a bit.” He looked at his daughter keenly, and added: “Any news of Corven?”

“Yes, he’s over here.”

“Oh! I wish I wasn’t kept so in the dark. Parents have to stand on the mat nowadays, and trust to what they can hear through the keyhole.”

Dinny drew his arm within hers.

“One has to be so careful of their feelings. Sensitive plants, aren’t you, Dad?”

“Well, it seems to your mother and me an extraordinarily bad look-out. We wish to goodness the thing could be patched up.”

“Not at the expense of Clare’s happiness, surely?”

“No,” said the General, dubiously, “no; but there you are at once in all these matrimonial things. What is and will be her happiness? She doesn’t know, and you don’t, and I don’t. As a rule in trying to get out of a hole you promptly step into another.”

“Therefore don’t try? Stay in your hole? That’s rather what Labour wanted to do, isn’t it?”

“I ought to see him,” said the General, passing over the simile, “but I can’t go blundering in the dark. What do you advise, Dinny?”

“Let the sleeping dog lie until it gets up to bite you.”

“You think it will?”

“I do.”

“Bad!” muttered the General. “Clare’s too young.”

That was Dinny’s own perpetual thought. What at the first blush she had said to her sister: “You must get free,” remained her conviction. But how was she to get free? Knowledge of divorce had been no part of Dinny’s education. She knew that the process was by no means uncommon, and she had as little feeling against it as most of her generation. To her father and mother it would probably seem lamentable, doubly so if Clare were divorced instead of divorcing—that would be a stigma on her to be avoided at almost all cost. Since her soul-racking experience with Wilfrid, Dinny had been very little in London. Every street, and above all the park, seemed to remind her of him and the desolation he had left in her. It was now, however, obvious to her that Clare could not be left unsupported in whatever crisis was befalling.

“I think I ought to go up, Dad, and find out what’s happening.”

“I wish to God you would. If it’s at all possible to patch things up, they ought to be.”

Dinny shook her head.

“I don’t believe it is, and I don’t believe you’d wish it if Clare had told you what she told me.”

The General stared. “There it is, you see. In the dark.”

“Yes, dear, but till she tells you herself I can’t say more.”

“Then the sooner you go up the better.”

Free from the scent of horse, Melton Mews was somewhat strikingly impregnated with the odour of petrol. This bricked alley had become, indeed, the haunt of cars. To right and to left of her, entering late that afternoon, the doors of garages gaped or confronted her with more or less new paint. A cat or two stole by, and the hinder parts of an overalled chauffeur bending over a carburettor could be seen in one opening; otherwise life was at a discount, and the word ‘mews’ no longer justified by manure.

No. 2 had the peacock-green door of its former proprietress, whom, with so many other luxury traders, the slump had squeezed out of business. Dinny pulled a chased bell-handle, and a faint tinkle sounded, as from some errant sheep. There was a pause, then a spot of light showed for a moment on a level with her face, was obscured, and the door was opened. Clare, in a jade-green overall, said:

“Come in, my dear. This is the lioness in her den, ‘the Douglas in her hall!’”

Dinny entered a small, almost empty room hung with the green Japanese silk of the antique dealer and carpeted with matting. A narrow spiral staircase wormed into it at the far corner, and a subdued light radiated from a single green-paper-shaded bulb hanging in the centre. A brass electric heater diffused no heat.

“Nothing doing here so far,” said Clare. “Come upstairs.”

Dinny made the tortuous ascent, and stepped into a rather smaller sitting-room. It had two curtained windows looking over the mews, a couch with cushions, a little old bureau, three chairs, six Japanese prints, which Clare had evidently just been hanging, an old Persian rug over the matted floor, an almost empty bookcase, and some photographs of the family standing on it. The walls were distempered a pale grey, and a gas fire was burning.

“Fleur gave me the prints and the rug, and Aunt Em stumped up the bureau. I took the other things over.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“On that couch—quite comfy. I’ve got a little bath-dressing-room next door, with a geyser, and a what-d’ye-call-it, and a cupboard for clothes.”

“Mother told me to ask what you wanted.”

“I could do with our old Primus stove, some blankets and a few knives and forks and spoons, and a small tea-set, if there’s one to spare, and any spare books.”

“Right!” said Dinny. “Now, darling, how are you?”

“Bodily fine, mentally rather worried. I told you he was over.”

“Does he know of this place?”

“Not so far. You and Fleur and Aunt Em—oh! and Tony Croom—are the only people who know of it. My official address is Mount Street. But he’s bound to find out if he wants to.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, and told him I wasn’t coming back; and I’m not, Dinny; that’s flat, to save breath. Have some tea? I can make it in a brown pot.”

“No, thank you, I had it on the train.” She was sitting on one of the taken-over chairs, in a bottle-green suit that went beautifully with her beech-leaf-coloured hair.

“How jolly you look, sitting there!” said Clare, curling up on the sofa. “Gasper?”

Dinny was thinking the same about her sister. Graceful creature, one of those people who couldn’t look ungraceful; with her dark short hair, and dark, alive eyes, and ivory pale face, and not too brightened lips holding the cigarette, she looked—well, ‘desirable.’ And, in all the circumstances, the word appeared to Dinny an awkward one. Clare had always been vivid and attractive, but without question marriage had subtly rounded, deepened, and in some sort bedevilled that attraction. She said suddenly:

“Tony Croom, you said?”

“He helped me distemper these walls; in fact, he practically did them, while I did the bathroom—these are better.”

Dinny’s eyes took in the walls with apparent interest.

“Quite neat. Mother and Father are nervous, darling.”

“They would be.”

“Naturally, don’t you think?”

Clare’s brows drew down. Dinny suddenly remembered how strenuously they had once debated the question of whether eyebrows should be plucked. Thank heaven! Clare never had yet.

“I can’t help it, Dinny. I don’t know what Jerry’s going to do.”

“I suppose he can’t stay long, without giving up his job?”

“Probably not. But I’m not going to bother. What will be will.”

“How quickly could a divorce be got? I mean against him?”

Clare shook her head, and a dark curl fell over her forehead, reminding Dinny of her as a child.

“To have him watched would be pretty revolting. And I’m not going into court to describe being brutalised. It’s only my word against his. Men are safe enough.”

Dinny got up and sat down beside her on the couch.

“I could kill him!” she said.

Clare laughed.

“He wasn’t so bad in many ways. Only I simply won’t go back. If you’ve once been skinned, you can’t.”

Dinny sat, silent, with closed eyes.

“Tell me,” she said, at last, “how you stand with Tony Croom.”

“He’s on probation. So long as he behaves I like to see him.”

“If,” said Dinny slowly, “he were known to come here, it would be all that would be wanted, wouldn’t it?”

Clare laughed again.

“Quite enough for men of the world, I should think; I believe juries can never withstand being called that. But you see, Dinny, if I begin to look at things from a jury’s point of view, I might as well be dead. And, as a matter of fact, I feel very much alive. So I’m going straight ahead. Tony knows I’ve had enough physiology to last me a long time.”

“Is he in love with you?”

Their eyes, brown and blue, met.

“Yes.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I like him—quite a lot. Beyond that I’ve no feeling at present.”

“Don’t you think that while Jerry is here—?”

“No. I think I’m safer while he’s here than when he goes. If I don’t go back with him he’ll probably have me watched. That’s one thing about him—he does what he says he’ll do.”

“I wonder if that’s an advantage. Come out and have some dinner.”

Clare stretched herself.

“Can’t, darling. I’m dining with Tony in a little grubby restaurant suited to our joint means. This living on next to nothing is rather fun.”

Dinny got up and began to straighten the Japanese prints. Clare’s recklessness was nothing new. To come the elder sister! To be a wet blanket! Impossible! She said:

“These are good, my dear. Fleur has very jolly things.”

“D’you mind if I change?” said Clare, and vanished into the bathroom.

Left alone with her sister’s problem, Dinny had the feeling of helplessness which comes to all but such as constitutionally ‘know better.’ She went dejectedly to the window and drew aside the curtain. All was darkish and dingy. A car had drawn out of a neighbouring garage and stood waiting for its driver.

‘Imagine trying to sell antiques here!’ she thought. She saw a man come round the corner close by and stop, looking at the numbers. He moved along the opposite side, then came back and stood still just in front of No. 2. She noted the assurance and strength in that trim over-coated figure.

‘Good heavens!’ she thought: ‘Jerry!’ She dropped the curtain and crossed quickly to the bathroom door. As she opened it she heard the desolate tinkling of the sheep-bell installed by the antique dealer.

Clare was standing in her underthings under the single bulb, examining her lips with a hand-glass. Dinny filled the remains of the four feet by two of standing room.

“Clare,” she said, “it’s HIM!”

Clare turned. The gleam of her pale arms, the shimmer of her silk garments, the startled light in her dark eyes, made her even to her sister something of a vision.

“Jerry?”

Dinny nodded.

“Well, I won’t see him.” She looked at the watch on her wrist. “And I’m due at seven. Damn!”

Dinny, who had not the faintest desire that she should keep her rash appointment, said, to her own surprise:

“Shall I go? He must have seen the light.”

“Could you take him away with you, Dinny?”

“I can try.”

“Then do, darling. It’d be ever so sweet of you. I wonder how he’s found out. Hell! It’s going to be a persecution.”

Dinny stepped back into the sitting-room, turned out the light there, and went down the twisting stair. The sheep-bell tinkled again above her as she went. Crossing that little empty room to the door, she thought: ‘It opens inwards, I must pull it to behind me.’ Her heart beat fast, she took a deep breath, opened the door swiftly, stepped out and pulled it to with a slam. She was chest to chest with her brother-inlaw, and she started back with an admirably impromptu: “Who is it?”

He raised his hat, and they stood looking at each other.

“Dinny! Is Clare in?”

“Yes; but she can’t see anyone.”

“You mean she WON’T see ME?”

“If you like to put it that way.”

He stood looking intently at her with his daring eyes.

“Another day will do. Which way are you going?”

“To Mount Street.”

“I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“Do.”

She moved along at his side, thinking: ‘Be careful!’ For in his company she did not feel towards him quite as in his absence. As everybody said, Jerry Corven had charm!

“Clare’s been giving me bad marks, I suppose?”

“We won’t discuss it, please; whatever she feels, I do too.”

“Naturally. Your loyalty’s proverbial. But consider, Dinny, how provocative she is.” His eyes smiled round at her. That vision— of neck, and curve, and shimmer, dark hair and eyes! Sex appeal— horrible expression! “You’ve no idea how tantalising. Besides, I was always an experimentalist.”

Dinny stood still suddenly: “This is my sister, you know.”

“You’re sure, I suppose? It seems queer when one looks at you both.”

Dinny walked on, and did not answer.

“Now listen, Dinny,” began that pleasant voice. “I’m a sensualist, if you like, but what does it matter? Sex is naturally aberrational. If anyone tells you it isn’t, don’t believe them. These things work themselves out, and anyway they’re not important. If Clare comes back to me, in two years’ time she won’t even remember. She likes the sort of life, and I’m not fussy. Marriage is very much a go-as-you-please affair.”

“You mean that by that time you’ll be experimenting with someone else?”

He shrugged, looked round at her, and smiled.

“Almost embarrassing this conversation, isn’t it? What I want you to grasp is that I’m two men. One, and it’s the one that matters, has his work to do and means to do it. Clare should stick to that man, because he’ll give her a life in which she won’t rust; she’ll be in the thick of affairs and people who matter; she’ll have stir and movement—and she loves both. She’ll have a certain power, and she’s not averse from that. The other man—well, he wants his fling, he takes it, if you like; but the worst is over so far as she’s concerned—at least, it will be when we’ve settled down again. You see, I’m honest, or shameless if you like it better.”

“I don’t see, in all this,” said Dinny drily, “where love comes in.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. Marriage is composed of mutual interest and desire. The first increases with the years, the latter fades. That ought to be exactly what she wants.”

“I can’t speak for Clare, but I don’t see it that way.”

“You haven’t tried yourself out, my dear.”

“No,” said Dinny, “and on those lines I trust I never may. I should dislike alternation between commerce and vice.”

He laughed.

“I like your bluntness. But seriously, Dinny, you ought to influence her. She’s making a great mistake.”

A sudden fury seized on Dinny.

“I think,” she said, between her teeth, “it was you who made the great mistake. If you do certain things to certain horses you’re never on terms with them again.”

He was silent at that.

“You don’t want a divorce in the family,” he said at last, and looked round at her steadily. “I’ve told Clare that I can’t let her divorce me. I’m sorry, but I mean that. Further, if she won’t come back to me, she can’t go as she pleases.”

“You mean,” said Dinny, between her teeth, “that if she does come back to you she can?”

“That’s what it would come to, I daresay.”

“I see. I think I’ll say good-night.”

“As you please. You think me cynical. That’s as may be. I shall do my best to get Clare back. If she won’t come she must watch out.”

They had stopped under a lamp-post and with an effort Dinny forced her eyes to his. He was as formidable, shameless, and mesmerically implacable as a cat, with that thin smile and unflinching stare. She said, quietly: “I quite understand. Goodnight!”

“Good-night, Dinny! I’m sorry, but it’s best to know where we stand. Shake hands?”

Rather to her surprise she let him take her hand, then turned the corner into Mount Street.

CHAPTER 9

She entered her Aunt’s house with all her passionate loyalty to her own breed roused, yet understanding better what had made Clare take Jerry Corven for husband. There WAS mesmerism about him, and a clear shameless daring which had its fascination. One could see what a power he might be among native peoples, how ruthlessly, yet smoothly, he would have his way with them; and how he might lay a spell over his associates. She could see, too, how difficult he might be to refuse physically, until he had outraged all personal pride.

Her Aunt’s voice broke her painful absorption with the words: “Here she is, Adrian.”

At the top of the stairs her Uncle Adrian’s goatee-bearded face was looking over his sister’s shoulder.

“Your things have come, my dear. Where have you been?”

“With Clare, Auntie.”

“Dinny,” said Adrian, “I haven’t seen you for nearly a year.”

“This is where we kiss, Uncle. Is all well in Bloomsbury, or has the slump affected bones?”

“Bones in esse are all right; in posse they look dicky—no money for expeditions. The origin of Homo sapiens is more abstruse than ever.”

“Dinny, we needn’t dress. Adrian’s stoppin’ for dinner. Lawrence will be so relieved. You can pow-wow while I loosen my belt, or do you want to tighten yours?”

“No, thank you, Auntie.”

“Then go in there.”

Dinny entered the drawing-room and sat down beside her Uncle. Grave and thin and bearded, wrinkled, and brown even in November, with long legs crossed and a look of interest in her, he seemed as ever the ideal pillar-box for confidences.

“Heard about Clare, Uncle?”

“The bare facts, no whys or wherefores.”

“They’re not ‘nice.’ Did you ever know a sadist?”

“Once—at Margate. My private school. I didn’t know at the time, of course, but I’ve gathered it since. Do you mean that Corven is one?”

“So Clare says. I walked here with him from her rooms. He’s a very queer person.”

“Not mentally abnormal?” said Adrian, with a shudder.

“Saner than you or I, dear; he wants his own way regardless of other people; and when he can’t get it he bites. Could Clare get a divorce from him without publicly going into their life together?”

“Only by getting evidence of a definite act of misconduct.”

“Would that have to be over here?”

“Well, to get it over there would be very expensive, and doubtful at that.”

“Clare doesn’t want to have him watched at present.”

“It’s certainly an unclean process,” said Adrian.

“I know, Uncle; but if she won’t, what chance is there?”

“None.”

“At present she’s in the mood that they should leave each other severely alone; but if she won’t go back with him, he says she must ‘look out for herself.’”

“Is there anybody else involved, then, Dinny?”

“There’s a young man in love with her, but she says it’s quite all right.”

“H’m! ‘Youth’s a stuff—’ as Shakespeare said. Nice young man?”

“I’ve only seen him for a few minutes; he looked quite nice, I thought.”

“That cuts both ways.”

“I trust Clare completely.”

“You know her better than I do, my dear; but I should say she might get very impatient. How long can Corven stay over here?”

“Not more than a month at most, she thinks; he’s been here a week already.”

“He’s seen her?”

“Once. He tried to again today. I drew him off. She dreads seeing him, I know.”

“As things are he has every right to see her, you know.”

“Yes,” said Dinny, and sighed.

“Can’t your Member that she’s with suggest a way out? He’s a lawyer.”

“I wouldn’t like to tell him. It’s so private. Besides, people don’t like being involved in matrimonial squabbles.”

“Is he married?”

“No.”

She saw him look at her intently, and remembered Clare’s laugh and words: “Dinny, he’s in love with you.”

“You’ll see him here tomorrow night,” Adrian went on. “Em’s asked him to dinner, I gather; Clare too, I believe. Quite candidly, Dinny, I don’t see anything to be done. Clare may change her mind and go back, or Corven may change his and let her stay without bothering about her.”

Dinny shook her head. “They’re neither of them like that. I must go and wash, Uncle.”

Adrian reflected upon the undeniable proposition that everyone had his troubles. His own at the moment were confined to the fact that his step-children, Sheila and Ronald Ferse, had measles, so that he was something of a pariah in his own house, the sanctity attaching to an infectious disease having cast his wife into purdah. He was not vastly interested in Clare. She had always been to him one of those young women who took the bit between their teeth and were bound to fetch up now and again with broken knees. Dinny, to him, was worth three of her. But if Dinny were going to be worried out of her life by her sister’s troubles, then, indeed, they became important to Adrian. She seemed to have the knack of bearing vicarious burdens: Hubert’s, his own, Wilfrid Desert’s, and now Clare’s.

And he said to his sister’s parakeet: “Not fair, Polly, is it?”

The parakeet, who was used to him, came out of its open cage on to his shoulder and tweaked his ear.

“You don’t approve, do you?”

The green bird emitted a faint chattering sound and clutched its way on to his waistcoat. Adrian scratched its poll.

“Who’s going to scratch her poll? Poor Dinny!”

His sister’s voice startled him:

“I can’t have Dinny scratched again.”

“Em,” said Adrian, “did any of US worry about the others?”

“In large families you don’t. I was the nearest—gettin’ Lionel married, and now he’s a judge—depressin’. Dornford—have you seen him?”

“Never.”

“He’s got a face like a portrait. They say he won the long jump at Oxford. Is that any good?”

“It’s what you call desirable.”

“Very well made,” said Lady Mont. “I looked him over at Condaford.”

“My dear Em!”

“For Dinny, of course. What do you do with a gardener who WILL roll the stone terrace?”

“Tell him not to.”

“Whenever I look out at Lippin’hall, he’s at it, takin’ the roller somewhere else. There’s the gong, and here’s Dinny; we’ll go in.”

Sir Lawrence was at the sideboard in the dining-room, extracting a crumbled cork.

“Lafite ‘65. Goodness knows what it’ll be like. Decant it very gently, Blore. What do you say, Adrian, warm it a little or no?”

“I should say no, if it’s that age.”

“I agree.”

Dinner began in silence. Adrian was thinking of Dinny, Dinny of Clare, and Sir Lawrence of the claret.

“French art,” said Lady Mont.

“Ah!” said Sir Lawrence: “that reminds me, Em; some of old Forsyte’s pictures are going to be lent. Considering he died saving them, they owe it to him.”

Dinny looked up.

“Fleur’s father? Was he a nice man, Uncle?”

“Nice?” repeated Sir Lawrence: “It’s not the word. Straight, yes: careful, yes—too careful for these times. He got a picture on his head, you know, in the fire—poor old chap. He knew something about French art, though. This exhibition that’s coming would have pleased him.”

“There’ll be nothing in it to touch ‘The Birth of Venus,’” said Adrian.

Dinny gave him a pleased look.

“That was divine,” she said.

Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.

“I’ve often thought of going into the question: Why a nation ceases to be poetic. The old Italians—and look at them now!”

“Isn’t poetry an effervescence, Uncle? Doesn’t it mean y