A Handful Of Dust

One

BETWEEN the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view.

This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr. Pecksniff from one of his pupils' designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with carved capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below, the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais; its walls hung with tapestry, its fire-place like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count the spires of six churches — all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession.

They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as “amusing” and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review.

The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleur-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work.

Morgan le Fay had always been his room since he left the night nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents, inseparable in Guinevere; for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmare. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence — the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from Chums), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called `the Museum,' filled with a dozen desultory collections, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, Bevis, Woodwork at Home, Conjuring for All, The Young Visitors, The Law of Landlord and Tenant, Farewell to Arms.

All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. “Has her ladyship been called yet?”

“About quarter of an hour ago, sir.”

“Then I'll have breakfast in her room.”

He put on his dressing gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere.

Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of makeup, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.

“Well?” said Tony.

“Kiss.”

He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.

“Anything interesting?”

He picked up some of the letters.

“No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. Please, needn't I?”

“I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.”

“Well you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says will we stay for the New Year?”

“That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.”

“I guessed not … though it sounds an amusing party.”

“You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.”

“That's all right. I knew it would be `no' before I opened the letter.”

“Well what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter …”

“Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.”

Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, “As a matter of fact I probably can manage to get away that week-end.”

“Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?”

“I daresay not.”

While he ate his breakfast. Brenda read to him from the papers. “Reggie's been making another speech … There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock … a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible? … Two more chaps in gas ovens … a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace … that play we went to about a farm is coming off.” Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. “I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?”

“Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.”

“I knew it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.”

“Well to tell you the truth I was just thinking.”

“Oh.”

“I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.”

“Oh you thought that?”

“Don't you?”

“Well it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.”

“Pointless? I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if …” Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets.

“Oh God,” she said into the pillow. “What have I done?”

“I say, am I being pompous again?”

She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. “Oh no, darling, not pompous. You wouldn't know how.”

“Sorry.”

Brenda sat up. “And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming.”

These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.

Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches.

John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Life-Guard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum rations. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition.

She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up.

Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged around the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of ear shot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country.

Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr. Last to get anyone in from outside.

Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a whitewashed rail. With these he erected a two foot jump in the middle of the field.

“Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it.”

Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, “What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it.” He handed John a switch.

Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail.

Ben shouted “Legs!” and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass.

Nanny rose in alarm. “Oh what's happened, Mr. Hacket, is he hurt?”

“He's all right,” said Ben.

“I'm all right,” said John, “I think she put in a short step.”

“Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way.”

At the third attempt John got over and found himself, breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.

“There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?”

Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, “Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat.”

Ben said, “We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hacket.”

“Good morning, miss.”

“Goodbye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?”

“That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?”

“Oh yes, please, nanny, may I?”

“You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day.”

“Can't have enough of horses,” said John, “ever.” On the way back to the house, he said, “Can I have my milk in mummy's room?”

“That depends.”

Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that — `We'll see' or `That's asking' or `Those that ask no questions, hear no lies' — so unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments.

“What does it depend on?”

“Lots of things.”

“Tell me one of them.”

“On your not asking a lot of silly questions.”

“Silly old tart.”

“John. How dare you? What do you mean?”

Delighted by the effect of this sally John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her saying, “Silly old tart, silly old tart” all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness.

“Go straight up to the nursery,” she said. “I am going to speak to your mother about you.”

“Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it.”

“Go straight to the nursery.”

Brenda was doing her face.

“It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him.”

Brenda spat in the eye black. “But, nanny, what exactly did he say?”

“Oh I couldn't repeat it, my lady.”

“Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was.”

“It couldn't have been worse … he called me a silly old tart, my lady.”

Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. “He said that?”

“Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, singing it.”

“I see … well you were quite right to tell me.”

“Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning.”

“All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr. Last about it.”

She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal. “Darling,” she said. “You must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am.”

“I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart,” John argued, “and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people.”

“Well, he's got no business to.”

“I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too,”

“Now you know you don't like him more than your mother.”

“Yes I do. Far more.”

Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. “Now, listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day.”

“She's paid to.”

“Be quiet. And secondly because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?”

“Is Ben less fortunate than me?”

“That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again.”

“All right.”

“And because you have been so naughty today you are not to ride tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday.”

“Well next day, then.”

“But you said `tomorrow.' It isn't fair to change now.”

“John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep him. You wouldn't like that would you?”

“What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides he's usually abroad.”

“He'd give him to some other little boy. Anyway that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny.”

At the door John said, “It's all right about riding on Monday, isn't it? You did say `tomorrow.' “

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Hooray. Thunderclap went very well today. We jumped a big post and rails. She refused to first time but went like a bird after that.”

“Didn't you come off?”

“Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser.”

“How did the lecture go?” Brenda asked.

“Bad. Rotten bad.”

“The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben.”

“I'm not sure we shan't both be soon.”

They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging drafts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable, electric radiator, but with little success. Even today, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining hall.

Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger — absorbing gluttony or an irregular regimen of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food `joker.'

“I'm sure it does me a great deal of good.”

“Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. I would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels … What are your plans for the afternoon?”

“Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go over to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it.”

“I wouldn't say `no' to going in to the `movies.' “

“All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday.”

“And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?”

What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together.

The pudding, without protein, was unattractive.

Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said “Hell.”

“Badders?”

“Something too horrible has happened. Look at this.”

Brenda read. Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver. And asked, “What's Beaver?”

“It's a young man.”

“That sounds all right.”

“Oh no it's not, wait till you see him.”

“What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?”

I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Brat's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house …”

“I suppose you were tight.”

“Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me.”

“Well it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here … Who is he anyway?”

“Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop.”

“I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money.”

“Look here we must put a call through and say we're ill.”

“Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and six-penny lunch … Anyway he can go into Sir Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again — the bed's agony I believe.”

“What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else.”

“You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies tonight and tomorrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?”

“I shouldn't know.”

Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony being there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception.

She met him in what was still called the smoking room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, “It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored … Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon … was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays … would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can …” and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult for she would have caught his eye and her manner as châtelaine would have collapsed. And Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the French windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends.

Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study.

Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable.

“Polly Cockpurse is having one soon.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Are you coming up for it?”

“I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays.” The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends.

“What's happening to Mary and Simon?”

“Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up.”

“When?”

“It began in Austria this summer …”

“And Billy Angmering?”

“He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub.”

“And the Helm-Hubbards?”

“That marriage isn't going too well either … Daisy has started a new restaurant.. It's going very well … and there's a new night club called the Warren …”

“Dear me,” Brenda said at last. “What fun everyone seems to be having.”

After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. “How do you do?” he said. “I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a weekend to himself for once. Do you hunt?”

“Not for a long time.”

“Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country.”

“Perhaps I can't afford to.”

“Are you poor?”

“Please, Mr. Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you.”

“Yes, very poor.”

“Poor enough to call people tarts?”

“Yes, quite poor enough.”

“How did you get poor?”

“I always have been.”

“Oh.” John lost interest in this topic. “The grey horse at the farm has got worms.”

“How do you know?”

“Ben says so. Besides you've only got to look at his dung.”

“Oh dear,” said Brenda, “what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. How old are you?”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing much.”

“Well if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt.”

“But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts.”

“I don't see any point in that anyway.”

Later in the nursery, while he was having supper, John said: “I think Mr. Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” said nanny.

“I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here.”

“Comparisons are odious.”

“There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose,” John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, “silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes …

“Now you eat up your supper,” said nanny.

That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass.

“I feel rather guilty about Beaver — going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him.”

She said, “Oh it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic.” Further down the passage Beaver examined his room with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The ink pot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips.

Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picturedrome where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad.

“I hope you sleep well.”

“I'm sure I shall.”

“D'you like to be called in the morning?”

“May I ring?”

“Certainly. Got everything you want?”

“Yes thanks. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

But when he got back he said, “You know, I feel awful about Beaver.”

“Oh Beaver's all right,” said Brenda.

But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking after him. Presently he adapted himself to the rugged topography of the mattress and dozed, fitfully, until morning. But the new day began dismally with the information that all the Sunday papers had already gone to her ladyship's room.

Tony invariably wore a dark suit on Sundays and a stiff white collar. He went to church, where he sat in a large pitch pine pew, put in by his great-grandfather at the time of rebuilding the house, furnished with very high crimson hassocks and a fireplace, complete with iron grate and a little poker which his father used to rattle when any point in the sermon attracted his disapproval. Since his father's day a fire had not been laid there; Tony had it in mind to revive the practice next winter. On Christmas Day and Harvest Thanksgiving Tony read the lessons from the back of the brass eagle.

When service was over he stood for a few minutes at the porch chatting affably with the vicar's sister and the people from the village. Then he returned home by a path across the fields which led to a side door in the walls garden; he visited the hot houses and picked himself a button-hole, stopped by the gardeners' cottages for a few words (the smell of Sunday dinners rising warm and overpowering from the little doorways) and then, rather solemnly, drank a glass of sherry in the library. That was the simple, mildly ceremonious order of his Sunday morning, which had evolved, more or less spontaneously, from the more severe practices of his parents; he adhered to it with great satisfaction. Brenda teased him whenever she caught him posing as an upright, God-fearing gentleman of the old school and Tony saw the joke, but this did not at all diminish the pleasure he derived from his weekly routine, or his annoyance when the presence of guests suspended it.

For this reason his heart sank when, emerging from his study into the great hall at quarter to eleven, he met Beaver already dressed and prepared to be entertained; it was only a momentary vexation, however, for while he wished him good morning he noticed that his guest had an A.B.C. in his hands and was clearly looking out a train.

“I hope you slept all right?”

“Beautifully,” said Beaver, though his wan expression did not confirm the word.

“I'm so glad. I always sleep well here myself. I say I don't like the look of that train guide. I hope you weren't thinking of leaving us yet?”

“Alas, I've got to get up tonight I'm afraid.”

“Too bad. I've hardly seen you. The trains aren't very good on Sundays. The best leaves at five-forty-five and gets up about nine. It stops a lot and there's no restaurant car.”

“That'll do fine.”

“Sure you can't stay until tomorrow?”

“Quite sure.”

The church bells were ringing across the park.

“Well I'm just off to church. I don't suppose you'd care to come.”

Beaver always did what was expected of him when he was staying away, even on a visit as unsatisfactory as the present one. “Oh yes. I should like to very much.”

“No, really I shouldn't, if I were you. You wouldn't enjoy it. I only go because I more or less have to. You stay here. Brenda will be down directly. Ring for a drink when you feel like it.”

“Oh, all right.”

“See you later then.” Tony took his hat and stick from the lobby and let himself out. `Now I've behaved inhospitably to that young man again,' he reflected.

The bells were clear and clamorous in the drive and Tony walked briskly towards them. Presently they ceased and gave place to a single note, warning the village that there was only five minutes to go before the organist started the first hymn.

He caught up nanny and John also on their way to church. John was in one of his rare confidential moods; he put his small gloved hand into Tony's and, without introduction, embarked upon a story which lasted them all the way to the church door; it dealt with the mule Peppermint who had drunk the company's rum ration, near Wipers in 1917; it was told breathlessly, as John trotted to keep pace with his father. At the end, Tony said, “How very sad.”

“Well I thought it was sad too, but it isn't. Ben said it made him laugh fit to bust his pants.”

The bell had stopped and the organist was watching from behind his curtain for Tony's arrival. He walked ahead up the aisle, nanny and John following. In the pew he occupied one of the armchairs; they sat on the bench at his back. He leant forward for half a minute with his forehead on his hand, and as he sat back, the organist played the first bars of the hymn.

“Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord. …” The service followed its course. As Tony inhaled the agreeable, slightly musty atmosphere and performed the familiar motions of sitting, standing, and leaning forward, his thoughts drifted from subject to subject, among the events of the past week and his plans for the future. Occasionally some arresting phrase in the liturgy would recall him to his surroundings, but for the most part that morning he occupied himself with the question of bathrooms and lavatories, and of how more of them could best be introduced without disturbing the character of his house.

The village postmaster took round the collection bag. Tony put in his half-crown; John and nanny their pennies.

The vicar climbed, with some effort, into the pulpit. He was an elderly man who had served in India most of his life. Tony's father had given him the living at the instance of his dentist. He had a noble and sonorous voice and was reckoned the best preacher for many miles around.

His sermons had been composed in his more active days for delivery at the garrison chapel; he had done nothing to adapt them to the changed conditions of his ministry and they mostly concluded with some reference to homes and dear ones far away. The villagers did not find this in any way surprising. Few of the things said in church seemed to have any particular reference to themselves. They enjoyed their vicar's sermons very much and they knew that when he began about their distant homes, it was time to be dusting their knees and feeling for their umbrellas.

“… And so as we stand here bareheaded at this solemn hour of the week,” he read, his powerful old voice swelling up for the peroration, “let us remember our Gracious Queen Empress in whose services we are here and pray that she may long be spared to send us at her bidding to do our duty in the uttermost parts of the earth; and let us think of our dear ones far away and the homes we have left in her name, and remember that though miles of barren continent and leagues of ocean divide us, we are never so near to them as on these Sunday mornings, united with them across dune and mountain in our loyalty to our sovereign and thanksgiving for her welfare; one with them as proud subjects of her sceptre and crown.”

(“The Reverend Tendril `e do speak uncommon high of the Queen,” a gardener's wife had once remarked to Tony.)

After the choir had filed out, during the last hymn, the congregation crouched silently for a few seconds and then made for the door. There was no sign of recognition until they were outside among the graves; then there was an ex-change of greetings, solicitous, cordial, garrulous.

Tony spoke to the vet's wife and Mr. Partridge from the shop; then he was joined by the vicar.

“Lady Brenda is not ill I hope?”

“No, nothing serious.” This was the invariable formula when he appeared at church without her. “A most interesting sermon vicar.”

“My dear boy, I'm delighted to hear you say so. It is one of my favourites. But have you never heard it before?”

“No, I assure you.”

“I haven't used it here lately. When I am asked to supply elsewhere it is the one I invariably choose. Let me see now, I always make a note of the times I use it.” The old clergyman opened the manuscript book he was carrying. It had a limp black cover and the pages were yellow with age. “Ah yes, here we are. I preached it first in Jelalabad when the Coldstream Guards were there; then I used it in the Red Sea coming home from my fourth leave; then at Sidmouth … Mentone … Winchester … to the Girl Guides at their summer rally in 1921 … the Church Stage Guild at Leicester … twice at Bournemouth during the winter of 1926 when poor Ada was so ill … No, I don't seem to have used it here since 1911 when you would have been too young to enjoy it. …”

The vicar's sister had engaged John in conversation. He was telling her the story of Peppermint “… he'd have been all right, Ben says, if he had been able to cat the rum up, but mules can't cat, neither can horses …”

Nanny grasped him firmly and hurried him towards home. “How many times have I told you not to go repeating whatever Ben Hacket tells you? Miss Tendril didn't want to heart about Peppermint. And don't ever use that rude word `cat' again.”

“It only means to be sick.”

“Well Miss Tendril isn't interested in being sick …” As the gathering between porch and lych gate began to disperse, Tony set off towards the gardens. There was a good choice of button-hole in the hot houses; he picked lemon carnations with crinkled, crimson edges for himself and Beaver and a camellia for his wife.

Shafts of November sunshine streamed down from lancet and oriel, tinctured in green and gold, gales and azure by the emblazoned coats, broken by the leaded devices into countless points and patches of coloured light. Brenda descended the great staircase step by step through alternations of dusk and rainbow. Both hands were occupied, holding to her breast a bag, a small hat, a half finished panel of petit-point embroidery and a vast disordered sheaf of Sunday newspapers, above which only her eyes and forehead appeared as though over a yashmak. Beaver emerged from the shadows below and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up at her.

“I say can't I carry something?”

“No, thanks, I've got everything safe. How did you sleep?”

“Beautifully.”

“I bet you didn't.”

“Well I'm not a very good sleeper.”

“Next time you come you shall have a different room. But I daresay you won't ever come again. People so seldom do. It is very sad because it's such fun for us having them and we never make any new friends living down here.”

“Tony's gone to church.”

“Yes, he likes that. He'll be back soon. Let's go out for a minute or two, it looks lovely.”

When Tony came back they mere sitting in the library. Beaver was telling Brenda's fortune with cards. “… Now cut to me again,” he was saying, “and I'll see if it's any clearer. … Oh yes … there is going to be a sudden death which. will cause you great pleasure and profit. In fact you are going to kill someone. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman … yes, a woman … then you are going to go on a long journey across the sea, marry six dark men and have eleven children, grow a beard and die.”

“Beast. And all this time I've been thinking it was serious. Hullo, Tony, jolly church?”

“Most enjoyable; how about some sherry?”

When they were alone together, just before luncheon, he said. “Darling, you're being heroic with Beaver.”

“Oh, I quite enjoy coping — in fact I'm bitching him rather.”

“So I saw. Well I'll look after him this afternoon and he's going this evening.”

“Is he, I'll be quite sorry. You know that's a difference between us, that when someone's awful you just run away and hide, while I actually enjoy it — making up to them and showing off to myself how well I can do it. Besides Beaver isn't so bad. He's quite like us in some ways.”

“He's not like me,” said Tony.

After luncheon Tony said, “Well if it would really amuse you, we might go over the house. I know it isn't fashionable to like this sort of architecture now — my Aunt Frances says it is an authentic Pecksniff — but I think it's good of its kind.”

It took them two hours. Beaver was well practised in the art of being shown over houses; he had been brought up to it in fact, ever since he had begun to accompany his mother, whose hobby it had always been, and later, with changing circumstances, the profession. He made apt and appreciative comments and greatly enhanced the pleasure Tony always took in exposing his treasures.

It was a huge building conceived in the late generation of the Gothic revival, when the movement had lost its fantasy and become structurally logical and stodgy. They saw it all: the shuttered drawing room, like a school speech-hall, the cloistral passages, the dark inner courtyard, the chapel where, until Tony's succession, family prayers had been daily read to the assembled household, the plate room and estate office, the bedrooms and attics, the watertank concealed among the battlements; they climbed the spiral staircase into the works of the clock and waited to see it strike half past three. Thence they descended with ringing ears to the collections — enamel, ivories, seals, snuff boxes, china, ormolu, cloisonné; they paused before each picture in the oak gallery and discussed its associations; they took out the more remarkable folios in the library and examined prints of the original buildings, manuscript account books of the old abbey, travel journals of Tony's ancestors. At intervals Beaver would say, “The So-and-sos have got one rather like that at Such-and-such a place,” and Tony would say, “Yes, I've seen it but I think mine is the earlier.” Eventually they came back to the smoking room and Tony left Beaver to Brenda. She was stitching away at the petit-point, hunched in an armchair. “Well,” she asked, without looking up from her needlework, “what did you think of it?”

“Magnificent.”

“You don't have to say that to me, you know.”

“Well, a lot of the things are very fine.”

“Yes, the things are all right I suppose.”

“But don't you like the house?”

“Me? I detest it … at least I don't mean that really, but I do wish sometimes that it wasn't all, every bit of it, so appallingly ugly. Only I'd die rather than say that to Tony. We could never live anywhere else, of course. He's crazy about the place … It's funny. None of us minded very much when my brother Reggie sold our house — and that was built by Vanburgh, you know … I suppose we're lucky to be able to afford to keep it up at all. Do you know how much it costs just to live here? We should be quite rich if it wasn't for that. As it is we support fifteen servants indoors, besides gardeners and carpenters and a night watchman and all the people at the farm and odd little men constantly popping in to wind the clocks and cook the accounts and clean the moat, while Tony and I have to fuss about whether it's cheaper to take a car up to London for the night or buy an excursion ticket … I shouldn't feel so badly about it if it were a really lively house — like my home for instance … but of course Tony's been brought up here and sees it all differently …”

Tony joined them for tea. “I don't want to seem inhospitable, but if you're going to catch that train, you ought really to be getting ready.”

“That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till tomorrow.”

“If you're sure you don't …”

“Splendid. I am glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train.”

When John came in he said, “I thought Mr. Beaver was going.”

“Not till tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross word. Beaver said, “I've thought of something” and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played `Analogies' about their friends and finally about each other.

They said goodbye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10.

Do let me know when you come to London.”

“I may be up this week.”

Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.

“Well, that's the last of him. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him.”

“Oh, he wasn't too awful.”

“No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house.”

Mrs. Beaver was eating her yoghort when Beaver reached home. “Who was there?”

“No one.”

“No one? My poor boy.”

“They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke.”

“I wish I saw her sometimes.”

“She talked of taking a flat in London.”

“Did she?” The conversation of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs. Beaver's business. “What does she want?”

“Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet.”

“I'm sure I shall be able to find her something.”

Two

If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She travelled third class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap fare. She usually spent the day with her younger sister Marjorie who was married to the prospective conservative candidate for a South London constituency of strong Labour sympathies. She was more solid than Brenda. The newspapers used always to refer to them as `the lovely Rex sisters.' Marjorie and Allan were hard up and smart; they could not afford a baby; they lived in a little house in the neighbourhood of Portman Square, very convenient for Paddington Station. They had a Pekingese dog named Djinn.

Brenda had come on impulse, leaving the butler to ring up and tell Marjorie of her arrival. She emerged from the train, after two hours and a quarter in a carriage crowded five a side, looking as fresh and fragile as if she had that moment left a circle of masseuses, chiropodists, manicurists and coiffeuses in an hotel suite. It was an aptitude she had, never to look half finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often was on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she went completely to pieces quite suddenly and became a waif; then she would sit over the fire with a cup of bread and milk, hardly alive, until Tony took her up to bed.

Marjorie had her hat on and was sitting at her writing table puzzling over her cheque book and a sheaf of bills.

“Darling, what does the country do to you? You look like a thousand pounds. Where did you get that suit?”

“I don't know. Some shop.”

“What's the news at Hetton?”

“All the same. Tony madly feudal. John Andrew cursing like a stable boy.”

“And you?”

“Me? Oh, I'm all right.”

“Who's been to stay?”

“No one. We had a friend of Tony's called Mr. Beaver last week-end.”

“John Beaver? … How very odd. “I shouldn't have thought he was at all Tony's tea.”

“He wasn't … What's he like?”

“I hardly know him. I see him at Margot's sometimes. He's a great one for going everywhere.”

“I thought he was rather pathetic.”

“Oh, he's pathetic all right. D'you fancy him?”

“Heavens, no.”

They took Djinn for a walk in the Park. He was a very unrepaying dog who never looked about him and had to be dragged along by his harness; they took him to Watt's Physical Energy; when loosed he stood perfectly still, gazing moodily at the asphalt until they turned towards home; only once did he show any sign of emotion, when he snapped at a small child who attempted to stroke him; later he got lost and was found a few yards away, sitting under a chair and staring at a shred of waste paper. He was quite colourless with pink nose and lips and pink circles of bald flesh round his eyes. “I don't believe he has a spark of human feeling,” said Marjorie.

They talked about Mr. Cruttwell, their bone setter, and Marjorie's new treatment. “He's never done that to me,” said Brenda enviously; presently, “What do you suppose is Mr. Beaver's sex-life?”

I shouldn't know. Pretty dim I imagine … You do fancy him?”

“Oh well,” said Brenda, “I don't see such a lot of young men …”

They left the dog at home and did some shopping — towels for the nursery, pickled peaches, a clock for one of the lodge-keepers who was celebrating his sixtieth year of service at Hetton, a pot of Morecambe Bay shrimps as a surprise for Tony; they made an appointment with Mr. Cruttwell for that afternoon. They talked about Polly Cockpurse's party. “Do come up for it. It's certain to be amusing.”

I might … if I can find someone to take me. Tony doesn't like her … I can't go to parties alone at my age.” They went out to luncheon, to a new restaurant in Albemarle Street which a friend of theirs named Daisy had recently opened. “You're in luck,” said Marjorie, as soon as they got inside the door, “there's your Mr. Beaver's mother.”

She was entertaining a party of eight at a large round table in the centre of the room; she was being paid to do so by Daisy, whose restaurant was not doing all she expected of it — that is to say the luncheon was free and Mrs. Beaver was getting the order, should the restaurant still be open, for its spring redecorations. It was, transparently, a made-up party, the guests being chosen for no mutual bond — least of all affection for Mrs. Beaver or for each other — except that their names were in current use — an accessible but not wholly renegade Duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse; “God, what a party,” said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all.

“You're both coming to my party, darlings?” Polly Cockpurse's strident tones rang across the restaurant. “Only don't tell anyone about it. It's just a very small, secret party. The house will only hold a few people — just old friends.”

“It would be wonderful to see what Polly's real old friends were like,” said Marjorie. “She hasn't known anyone more than five years.”

“I wish Tony could see her point.”

(Although Polly's fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured Earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time, since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.)

After luncheon Mrs. Beaver came across to their table. “I must just come and speak to you though I'm in a great hurry. It's so long since we met and John has been telling me about a delightful week-end he had with you.”

“It was very quiet.”

“That's just what he loves. Poor boy he gets rushed off his feet in London. Tell me, Lady Brenda, is it true you are looking for a flat, because I think I've got just the place for you? It's being done up now and will be ready well before Christmas.” She looked at her watch. “Oh dear, I' must fly. You couldn't possibly come in for a cocktail, this evening? Then you could hear all about it.”

“I could … ” said Brenda doubtfully.

“Then do. I'll expect you about six. I daresay you don't know where I live.” She told her and left the table. “What's all this about a flat?” Marjorie asked.

“Oh just something I thought of …”

That afternoon, as she lay luxuriously on the osteopath's table, and her vertebrae, under his strong fingers, snapped like patent fasteners, Brenda wondered whether Beaver would be at home that evening. “Probably not, if he's so keen on going about,” she thought; “and, anyhow, what's the sense? …”

But he was there, in spite of two other invitations.

She heard all about the maisonette. Mrs. Beaver knew her job. What people wanted, she said, was somewhere to dress and telephone. She was subdividing a small house in Belgravia into six flats at three pounds a week, of one room each and a bath; the bathrooms were going to be slap-up, with limitless hot water and every transatlantic refinement; the other room would have a large built-in wardrobe with electric light inside, and space for a bed. It would fill a long felt need, Mrs. Beaver said.

“I'll ask my husband and let you know.”

“You will let me know soon, won't you, because everyone will be wanting one.”

“I'll let you know very soon.”

When she had to go, Beaver came with her to the station. She usually ate some chocolate and buns in her carriage; they bought them together at the buffet. There was plenty of time before the train left and the carriage was not yet full. Beaver came in and sat with her.

“I'm sure you want to go away.”

“No, really.”

“I've got lots to read.”

“I want to stay.”

“It's very sweet of you.” Presently she said, rather timidly, for she was not used to asking for that sort of thing, “I suppose you wouldn't like to take me to Polly's party, would you?”

Beaver hesitated. There would be several dinner parties that evening and he was almost certain to be invited to one or other of them … if he took Brenda out it would mean the Embassy or some smart restaurant … three pounds at least … and he would be responsible for her and have to see her home … and if, as she said, she really did not know many people nowadays (why indeed should she have asked him if that were not true?) it might mean tying himself up for the whole evening … “I wish I could,” he said, “but I've promised to dine out for it.”

Brenda had observed his hesitation. “I was afraid you would have.”

“But we'll meet there.”

“Yes, if I go.”

“I wish I could have taken you.”

“It's quite all right … I just wondered.”

The gaiety with which they had bought the buns was all gone now. They were silent for a minute. Then Beaver said, “Well, I think perhaps I'll leave you now.”

“Yes, run along. Thank you for coming.”

He went off down the platform. There were still eight minutes to go. The carriage suddenly filled up and Brenda felt tired out. “Why should he want to take me, poor boy?” she thought, “only he might have done it better.”

“Barnardo case?”

Brenda nodded. “Down and out,” she said, “sunk, right under.” She sat nursing her bread and milk, stirring it listlessly. Every bit of her felt good for nothing.

“Good day?”

She nodded. “Saw Marjorie and her filthy dog. Bought some things. Lunched at Daisy's new joint. Bone setter. That's all.”

“You know I wish you'd give up these day trips to London. They're far too much for you.”

“Me? Oh, I'm all right. Wish I was dead, that's all … and please, please, darling Tony, don't say anything about bed, because I can't move.”

Next day a telegram came from Beaver. Have got out of dinner 16th. Are you still free.

She replied: Delighted. Second thoughts always best. Brenda.

Up till then they had avoided Christian names.

“You seem in wonderful spirits today,” Tony remarked.

“I feel big. I think it's Mr. Cruttwell. He puts all one's nerves right and one's circulation and everything.”

Three

“Where's mummy gone?”

“London.”

“Why?”

“Someone called Lady Cockpurse is giving a party.”

“Is she nice?”

“Mummy thinks so. I don't.”

“Why?”

“Because she looks like a monkey.”

“I should love to see her. Does she live in a cage? Has she got a tail? Ben saw a woman who looked like a fish, with scales all over instead of skin. It was in a circus in Cairo. Smelt like a fish too, Ben says.”

They were having tea together on the afternoon of Brenda's departure. “Daddy, what does Lady Cockpurse eat?”

“Oh, nuts and thins.”

“Nuts and what things?”

“Different kinds of nuts.”

For days to come the image of this hairy, mischievous Countess occupied John Andrew's mind. She became one of the inhabitants of his world, like Peppermint, the mule who died of rum. When kindly people spoke to him in the village he would tell them about her and how she swung head down from a tree throwing nutshells at passers-by.

“You mustn't say things like that about real people,” said nanny. “Whatever would Lady Cockpurse do if she heard about it.”

“She'd gibber and chatter and lash round with her tail, and then I expect she'd catch some nice, big, juicy fleas and forget all about it.”

Brenda was staying at Marjorie's for the night. She was dressed first and came into her sister's room. “Lovely, darling, new?”

“Fairly.”

Marjorie was rung up by the woman at whose house she was dining. (“Look here are you absolutely sure you can't make Alan come tonight?” “Absolutely. He's got a meeting in Camberwell. He may not even come to Polly's.” “Is there any man you can bring?” “Can't think of anybody.” “Well we shall have to be one short, that's all. I can't think what's happened tonight. I rang up John Beaver but even he won't come.”)

“You know,” said Marjorie, putting down the telephone, “you're causing a great deal of trouble. You've taken London's only spare man.”

“Oh dear, I didn't realize …”

Beaver arrived at quarter to nine in a state of high self-approval; he had refused two invitations to dinner while dressing that evening; he had cashed a cheque for ten pounds at his club; he had booked a divan table at Espinosa's. It was almost the first time in his life that he had taken anyone out to dinner, but he knew perfectly how it was done.

“I must see your Mr. Beaver properly,” said Marjorie. “Let's make him take off his coat and drink something.”

The two sisters were a little shy as they came downstairs, but Beaver was perfectly at his ease. He looked very elegant and rather more than his age.

`Oh; he's not so bad, your Mr. Beaver,' Marjorie's look seemed to say, `not by any means,' and he, seeing the two women together, who were both beautiful, though in a manner so different that, although it was apparent that they were sisters, they might have belonged each to a separate race, began to understand what had perplexed him all the week; why, contrary to all habit and principle, he had telegraphed to Brenda asking her to dine.

“Mrs. Jimmy Deane's very upset that she couldn't get you for tonight. I didn't give away what you were doing.”

“Give her my love,” said Beaver. “Anyway we'll all meet at Polly's.”

“I must go, we're dining at nine.”

“Stay a bit,” said Brenda. “She's sure to be late.” Now that it was inevitable, she did not want to be left alone with Beaver.

“No, I must go. Enjoy yourselves, bless you both.” She felt as though she were the elder sister, seeing Brenda timid and expectant at the beginning of an adventure.

They were awkward when Marjorie left, for in the week that they had been apart, each had, in thought, grown more intimate with the other than any actual occurrence warranted. Had Beaver been more experienced, he might have crossed to where Brenda was sitting on the arm of a chair, and made love to her at once; and probably he would have got away with it. Instead he remarked in an easy manner, “I suppose we ought to be going too.”

“Yes, where?”

“I thought Espinosa's.”

“Yes, lovely. Only listen: I want you to understand right away that it's my dinner.”

“Of course not … nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, it is. I'm a year older than you and an old married woman and quite rich, so, please, I'm going to pay.” Beaver continued protesting to the taxi door.

But there was still a constraint between them and Beaver began to wonder, `Does she expect me to pounce?' So as they waited in a traffic block by the Marble Arch, he leaned forward to kiss her; when he was quite near, she drew back. He said, “Please, Brenda,” but she turned away and looked out of the window shaking her head several times quickly. Then still fixed on the window she put out her hand to his and they sat in silence till they reached the restaurant. Beaver was thoroughly puzzled.

Once they were in public again, his confidence returned. Espinosa led them to their table; it was the one by itself on the right side of the door, the only table in the restaurant at which one's conversation was not overheard. Brenda handed him the card. “You choose. Very little for me, but it must only have starch, no protein.”

The bill at Espinosa's was, as a rule, roughly the same whatever one ate, but Brenda would not know this so, since it was now understood that she was paying, Beaver felt constrained from ordering anything that looked obviously expensive. However she insisted on champagne, and later a ballon of liqueur brandy for him. “You can't think how exciting it is for me to take a young man out. I've never done it before.”

They stayed at Espinosa's until it was time to go to the party, dancing once or twice, but most of the time sitting at the table talking. Their interest in each other had so far outdistanced their knowledge that there was a great deal to say.

Presently Beaver said, “I'm sorry I was an ass in the taxi just now.”

“Eh?”

He changed it and said, “Did you mind when I tried to kiss you just now?”

“Me? No, not particularly.”

“Then why wouldn't you let me?”

“Oh dear, you've got a lot to learn.”

“How d'you mean?”

“You mustn't ever ask questions like that. Will you try and remember?”

Then he was sulky. “You talk to me as if I was an undergraduate having his first walk out.”

“Oh, is this a walk out?”

“Not as far I am concerned.”

There was a pause in which Brenda said, “I am not sure it hasn't been a mistake, taking you out to dinner. Let's ask for the bill and go to Polly's.”

But they took ten minutes to bring the bill, and in that time Beaver and Brenda had to say something, so he said he was sorry.

“You've got to learn to be nicer,” she said soberly. “I don't believe you'd find it impossible.” When the bill eventually came, she said, “How much do I tip him?” and Beaver showed her. “Are you sure that's enough? I should have given twice as much.”

“It's exactly right,” said Beaver, feeling older again, exactly as Brenda had meant him to.

When they sat in the taxi Beaver knew at once that Brenda wished him to make love to her. But he decided it was time he took the lead. So he sat at a distance from her and commented on an old house that was being demolished to make way for a block of flats.

“Shut up,” said Brenda. “Come here.”

When he had kissed her, she rubbed against his cheek in the way she had.

Polly's party was exactly what she wished it to be, an accurate replica of all the best parties she had been to in the last year; the same band, the same supper, and, above all, the same guests. Hers was not the ambition to create a sensation, to have the party talked about in months to come for any unusual feature, to hunt out shy celebrities or introduce exotic strangers. She wanted a perfectly straight, smart party and she had got it. Practically everyone she asked had come. If there were other, more remote worlds upon which she did not impinge, Polly did not know about them. These were the people she was after, and here they were. And looking round on her guests, with Lord Cockpurse who was for the evening loyally putting in one of his rare appearances at her side, she was able to congratulate herself that there were very few people present whom she did not want. In other years people had taken her hospitality more casually and brought on with them anyone with whom they happened to have been dining. This year, without any conscious effort on her part, there had been more formality. Those who wanted to bring friends had rung up in the morning and asked whether they might do so, and on the whole they had been cautious of even so much presumption. People, who only eighteen months before would have pretended to be ignorant of her existence, were now crowding up her stairs. She had got herself in line with the other married women of her world.

As they started to go up, Brenda said, “You're not to leave me, please. I'm not going to know anybody,” and Beaver again saw himself as the dominant male.

They went straight through to the band and began dancing, not talking much except to greet other couples whom they knew. They danced for half an hour and then she said, “All right, I'll give you a rest. Only don't let me get left.”

She danced with Jock Grant-Menzies and two or three old friends and did not see Beaver again until she came on him alone in the bar. He had been there a long time, talking sometimes to the couples who came in and out, but always ending up alone. He was not enjoying the evening and he told himself rather resentfully that it was because of Brenda; if he had come there in a large party it would have been different.

Brenda saw he was out of temper and said, “Time for supper.”

It was early, and the tables were mostly empty except for earnest couples sitting alone. There was a large round table between the windows, with no one at it; they sat there.

“I don't propose to move for a long time, d'you mind?” She wanted to make him feel important again so she asked him about the other people in the room.

Presently their table filled up. These were Brenda's old friends, among whom she used to live when she came out and in the first two years of her marriage, before Tony's father died; men in the early thirties, married women of her own age, none of whom knew Beaver or liked him. It was by far the gayest table in the room. Brenda thought `How my poor young man must be hating this'; it did not occur to her that, from Beaver's point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. “Are you dying of it?” she whispered.

“No, indeed, never happier.”

“Well I am. Let's go and dance.”

But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. “Oh dear,” said Brenda, “now we're done. We can't back to the table … it almost looks as though we should have to go home.”

“It's not two.”

“That's late for me. Look here, don't you come. Stay and enjoy yourself.”

“Of course I'll come,” said Beaver.

It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm around her in the taxi. They did not say much.

“There already?”

They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out.

“I'm afraid I can't ask you in for a drink. You see it isn't my house and I shouldn't know where to find anything.”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, goodnight, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening.”

“No, of course not,” said Beaver.

“Will you ring me in the morning … promise?” She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole.

Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed.

Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice.

“Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?”

“No, it's on the ground floor.”

“Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?”

“Oh, I don't know. What is it?”

“Just to say `goodnight.' “

“Oh, I see, well — goodnight.”

“And you'll ring me in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Early, before you've made any plans.”

“Yes.”

“Then goodnight, bless you.”

Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed.

“… going away in the middle of the party.”

“I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in.”

“No one is going to know that.”

“And he was furious when I rang him up.”

“What does he think of you?”

“Simply can't make me out at all … terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits.”

“Are you going to go on with it?”

“I shouldn't know.” The telephone rang. “Perhaps that's him.”

But it was not.

Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. “But really, Brenda, he's such a dreary young man.”

“I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all … besides I'm not sure he's altogether awful … he's got that odious mother whom he adores … and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn't get married because of money and since then he's never had a proper affaire with anyone decent … he's got to be taught a whole lot of things. That's part of his attraction.”

“Oh dear, I see you're very serious.” The telephone rang.

“Perhaps that's him.”

But a familiar voice rang out from the instrument so that Brenda too could hear it, “Good morning, darling, what's the diet today?”

“Oh, Polly, what a good party last night.”

“Not so bad for the old girl was it? I say what about your sister and Mr. Beaver.”

“What about them?”

“How long has that been on?”

“There's nothing doing there, Polly.”

“Don't you tell me. They were well away last night. How's the boy managed it? That's what I want to know. He must have something we didn't know about …”

“So Polly's on to your story. She'll be telling everyone in London at this moment.”

“How I wish there was anything to tell. The cub hasn't even rung me up … Well, I'll leave him in peace. If he doesn't do anything about me, I'll go down to Hetton this afternoon. Perhaps that's him.” But it was only Allan from the Conservative Central Office, to say how sorry he had been not to get to the party the night before. “I hear Brenda disgraced herself,” he said.

“Goodness,” said Brenda. “People do think that young men are easily come by.” -

“I scarcely saw you at Polly's last night,” said Mrs. Beaver. “What became of you?”

“We went early. Brenda Last was tired.”

“She was looking lovely. I am so glad you've made friends with her. When are you going to see her again.”

“I said I'd ring up.”

“Well, why don't you?”

“Oh, mumsey, what's the use! I can't afford to start taking about women like Brenda Last. If I ring up she'll say, what are you doing, and I shall have to ask her to something, and it will be the same thing every day. I simply haven't the money.”

“I know, my son. It's very difficult for you … and you're wonderful about money. I ought to be grateful that I haven't a son always coming to me with debts. Still, it doesn't do to deny yourself everything you know: You're getting to be an old bachelor already at twenty-five. I could see Brenda liked you, that evening she came here.”

“Oh she likes me all right.”

“I hope she makes up her mind about that flat. They're going like hot cakes. I shall have to look about for another suitable house to split up. You'd be surprised who've been taking them — quite a number of people with houses in London already … Well, I must be getting back to work. I'm away for two nights by the way. See that Chambers looks after you properly. There are some Australians Sylvia Newport discovered who want to take a house in the country, so I'm driving them around to one or two that might do for them. Where are you lunching?”

“Margot's.”

By one o'clock when they came back from taking Djinn to the Park, Beaver had not rung up. “So that's that,” said Brenda, “I expect I'm glad really.” She sent a telegram to Tony to expect her by the afternoon train and, in a small voice, ordered her things to be packed. “I don't seem to have anywhere to lunch,” she said.

“Why don't you come to Margot's. I know she'd love it.”

“Well ring up and ask her.”

So she met Beaver again.

He was sitting some way from her and they did not speak to each other until everyone was going. “I kept trying to get through to you this morning,” he said, “but the line was always engaged.”

“Oh come on,” said Brenda, “I'll sock you a movie.”

Later she wired to Tony: Staying with Marjorie another day or two all love to you both.

Four

“Is mummy coming back today?”

“I hope so.

“That monkey-woman's party has lasted a long time. Can I come in to the station and meet her?”

“Yes, we'll both go.”

“She hasn't seen Thunderclap for four days. She hasn't seen me jump the new post and rail, has she daddy?”

She was coming by the 3.18. Tony and John Andrew were there early. They wandered about the station looking at things, and bought some chocolate from a slot machine. The stationmaster came out to talk to them. “Her ladyship coming back today?” He was an old friend of Tony's.

“I've been expecting her every day. You know what it is when ladies get to London.”

“Sam Braces wife went to London and he couldn't get her back. Had to go up and fetch her himself. And then she give him a hiding.”

Presently the train came in and Brenda emerged exquisitely from her third class carriage. “You've both come. What angels you are. I don't at all deserve it.”

“Oh, mummy, have you brought the monkey-lady?”

“What does the child mean?”

“He's got it into his head that your chum Polly has a tail.”

“Come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if she had.”

Two little cases held all her luggage. The chauffeur strapped them on behind the car, and they drove to Hetton.

“What's all the news?”

“Ben's put the rail up ever so high and Thunderclap and I jumped it six times yesterday and six times again today and two more of the fish in the little pond are dead, floating upside down all swollen and nanny burnt her finger on the kettle yesterday and daddy and I saw a fox just as near as anything and he sat quite still and then went away into the wood and I began drawing a picture of a battle only I couldn't finish it because the paints weren't right and the grey carthorse the one that had worms is quite well again.”

“Nothing much has happened,”. said Tony. “We've missed you. What did you find to do in London all this time?”

“Me? Oh I've been behaving rather badly to tell you the truth.”

“Buying things?”

“Worse. I've been carrying on madly with young men and I've spent heaps of money and I've enjoyed it very much indeed. But there's one awful thing.”

“What's that?”

“No, I think it had better keep. It's something you won't like at all.”

“You've bought a Pekingese.”

“Worse, far worse. Only I haven't done it yet. But I want to dreadfully.”

“Go on.”

“Tony, I've found a flat.”

“Well you'd better lose it again quick.”

“All right. I'll attack you about it again later. Meanwhile try not to brood about it.”

“I shan't give it another thought.”

“What's a flat, daddy?”

Brenda wore pyjamas at dinner, and afterwards sat close to Tony on the sofa and ate some sugar out of his coffee cup.

“I suppose all this means that you're going to start again about your flat?”

“Mmmm.”

“You haven't signed any papers yet have you.”

“Oh no.” Brenda shook her head emphatically.

“Then no great harm's done.” Tony began to fill his pipe.

Brenda knelt on the sofa, sitting back on her heels. “Listen, you haven't been brooding?”

“No.”

“Because, you see, when you say `flat' you're thinking of something quite different to me. You mean by a flat, a lift and a man in uniform, and a big front door with knobs, and an entrance hall and doors opening in all directions, with kitchens and sculleries and dining rooms and drawing rooms and servants' bathrooms … don't you, Tony?”

“More or less.”

“Exactly. Now I mean just a bedroom and a bath and a telephone. You see the difference? Now a woman I know — “

“Who?”

“Just a woman — has fixed up a whole house like that off Belgrave Square and they are three pounds a week, no rates and taxes, constant hot water and central heating, woman comes in to make bed when required, what d'you think of that?”

“I see.”

“Now this is how I look at it. What's three pounds a week? Less than nine bob a night. Where could one stay for less than nine bob a night with all those advantages. You're always going to the club and that costs more and I can't stay often with Marjorie because it's hell for her having me and anyway she's got that dog, and you're always saying when I come back in the evenings after shopping, `Why didn't you stay the night,' you say, `instead of killing yourself?' Time and again you say it. I'm sure we spend much more than three pounds a week through not having a flat. Tell you what, I'll give up Mr. Cruttwell. How's that?”

“D'you really want this thing?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, I'll have to see. We might manage it, but it'll mean putting off the improvements down here.”

“I don't really deserve it,” she said, clinching the-matter. “I've been carrying on anyhow this week.”

Brenda's stay at Hetton lasted only for three nights. Then she returned to London saying that she had to see about the flat. It did not, however, require very great attention. There was only the colour of the paint to choose and some few articles of furniture. Mrs. Beaver had them ready for her inspection, a bed, a carpet, a dressing table and chair — there was not room for more. Mrs. Beaver tried to sell her a set of needlework pictures for the walls, but these she refused, also an electric bed warmer, a miniature weighing machine for the bathroom, a frigidaire, an antique grandfather clock, a backgammon set of looking-glass and synthetic ivory, a set of prettily bound French eighteenth century poets, a massage apparatus, and a wireless set fitted in a case of Regency lacquer, all of which had been grouped in the shop for her as a `suggestion.' Mrs. Beaver bore Brenda no ill will for the modesty of her requirements; she was doing very well on the floor above with a Canadian lady who was having her walls covered with chromium plating at immense expense.

Meanwhile Brenda stayed with Marjorie, on terms which gradually became acrimonious. “I'm sorry to be pompous,” she said one morning, “but I just don't want your Mr. Beaver hanging about the house all day and calling me Marjorie.”

“Oh well, the flat won't be long now.”

“And I shall go on saying that I think you're making a ridiculous mistake.”

“It's just that you don't like Mr. Beaver.”

“It isn't only that. I think it's hard cheese on Tony.”

“Oh, Tony's all right.”

“And if there's a row — “

“There won't be a row.”

“You never know. If there is, I don't want Allan to think I've been helping to arrange things.”

“I wasn't so disagreeable to you about Robin Beaseley.”

“There was never much in that,” said Marjorie.

But with the exception of her sister's, opinion was greatly in favour of Brenda's adventure. The morning telephone buzzed with news of her; even people with whom she had the barest acquaintance were delighted to relate that they had seen her and Beaver the evening before at restaurant or cinema. It had been an autumn of very sparse and meagre romance; only the most obvious people had parted or come together, and Brenda was filling a want long felt by those whose simple, vicarious pleasure it was to discuss the subject in bed over the telephone. For them her circumstances shed peculiar glamour; for five years she had been a legendary, almost ghostly name, the imprisoned princess of fairy story, and now that she had emerged there was more enchantment in the occurrence, than in the mere change of habit of any other circumspect wife. Her very choice of partner gave the affair an appropriate touch of fantasy; Beaver, the joke figure they had all known and despised, suddenly caught up to her among the luminous clouds of deity. If, after seven years looking neither to right nor left, she had at last broken away with Jock Grant-Menzies or Robin Beaseley or any other young buck with whom nearly everyone had had a crack one time or another, it would have been thrilling no doubt, but straightforward, drawing-room comedy. The choice of Beaver raised the whole escapade into a realm of poetry for Polly and Daisy and Angela and all the gang of gossips.

Mrs. Beaver made no bones about her delight. “Of course the subject has not been mentioned between John and myself, but if what I hear is true, I think it will do the boy a world of good. Of course he's always been very much in demand and had a great number of friends, but that isn't the same thing. I've felt for a long time a lack of something in him, and I think that a charming and experienced woman like Brenda Last is just the person to help him. He's got a very affectionate nature, but he's so sensitive that he hardly ever lets it appear … to tell you the truth I felt something of the kind was in the air last week, so I made an excuse to go away for a few days. If I had been there things might never have come to anything. He's very shy and reserved even to me. I'll have the chess-men done up and sent round to you this afternoon. Thank you so much.”

And Beaver, for the first time in his life, found himself a person of interest and, almost of consequence. Women studied him with a new scrutiny, wondering what they had missed in him; men treated him as an equal, even as a successful fellow competitor. “How on earth has he got away with it?” they may have asked themselves, but now, when he came into Brat's, they made room for him at the bar and said, “Well, old boy, how about one?”

Brenda rang Tony up every morning and evening. Sometimes John Andrew spoke to her, too, as shrill as Polly Cockpurse; quite unable to hear her replies. She went to Hetton for the week-end, and then back to London, this time to the flat where the paint was already dry, though the hot water was not yet in perfect working order; everything smelt very new — walls, sheets, curtains — and the new radiators gave off a less agreeable reek of hot iron.

That evening she telephoned to Hetton. “I'm talking from the flat.”

“Oh, ah.”

“Darling, do try to sound interested. It's very exciting for me.”

“What's it like?”

“Well there are a good many smells at present and the bath makes odd sounds and when you turn on the hot tap there's just a rush of air and that's all, and the cold tap keeps dripping and the water is rather brown and the cupboard doors are jammed and the curtains won't pull right across so that the street lamp shines in all night … but it's lovely.”

“You don't say so.”

“Tony, you must be nice about it. It's all so exciting — front door and a latch key and all … And someone sent me a lot of flowers today — so many that there's hardly room for them and I've had to put them in the basin on account of having no pots. It wasn't you, was it?”

“Yes … as a matter of fact.”

“Darling, I did so hope it was … how like you.”

“Three minutes please.”

“Must stop now.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Almost at once. Goodnight, my sweet.”

“What a lot of talk,” said Beaver.

All the time that she was speaking, she had been kept busy with one hand warding him off the telephone, which he threatened playfully to disconnect.

“Wasn't it sweet of Tony to send those flowers?”

“I'm awfully fond of Tony.”

“Don't let that worry you, my beauty, he doesn't like you at all.”

“Doesn't he? Why not?”

“No one does except me. You must get that clear … it's very odd that I should.”

Beaver and his mother were going to Ireland for Christmas, to stay with cousins. Tony and Brenda had a family party at Hetton; Marjorie and Allan, Brenda's mother, Tony's Aunt Frances and two families of impoverished Lasts, humble and uncomplaining victims of primogeniture, to whom Hetton meant as much as it did to Tony. There was a little Christmas tree in the nursery for John Andrew and a big one downstairs in the central hall which was decorated by the impoverished Lasts and lit up for half an hour after tea (two footmen standing by with wet sponges on the end of poles, to extinguish the candles which turned turtle and threatened to start a fire). There were presents for all the servants, of value strictly graded according to their rank, and for all the guests (cheques for the impoverished Lasts). Allan always brought a large croыte of foie gras, a delicacy of which he was particular fond. Everyone ate a great deal and became slightly torpid towards Boxingday evening; silver ladles of burning brandy went around the table, crackers were pulled and opened; paper hats, indoor fireworks, mottoes. This year, everything happened in its accustomed way; nothing seemed to menace the peace and stability of the house. The choir came up and sang carols in the pitch pine gallery, and later devoured hot punch and sweet biscuits. The vicar preached his usual Christmas sermon. It was one to which his parishioners were particularly attached. “How difficult it is for us,” he began, blandly surveying his congregation, who coughed into their mufflers and chafed their chilblains under their woollen gloves, “to realize that this is indeed Christmas. Instead of the glowing log fire and windows tight shuttered against the drifting snow, we have only the harsh glare of the alien sun; instead of the happy circle of loved faces, of home and family, we have the uncomprehending stares of the subjugated, though no doubt grateful, heathen. Instead of the placid ox and ass of Bethlehem,” said the vicar, slightly losing the thread of his comparisons, “we have for companions the ravening tiger and the exotic camel, the furtive jackal and the ponderous elephant …” And so on, through the pages of faded manuscript. The words had temporarily touched the heart of many an obdurate trooper, and hearing them again, as he had heard them year after year since Mr. Tendril had come to the parish, Tony and most of Tony's guests felt that it was an integral part of their Christmas festivities; one with which they would find it very hard to dispense. `The ravening tiger and the exotic camel' had long been bywords in the family, of frequent recurrence in all their games.

These games were the hardest part for Brenda. They did not amuse her and she still could not see Tony dressed up for charades without a feeling of shyness. Moreover she was tortured by the fear that any lack of gusto on her part might be construed by the poor Lasts as superiority. These scruples, had she known it, were quite superfluous for it never occurred to her husband's relatives to look on her with anything but cousinly cordiality and a certain tolerance, for, as Lasts, they considered they had far more right in Hetton than herself. Aunt Frances, with acid mind; quickly discerned the trouble and attempted to reassure her, saying, “Dear child, all these feelings of delicacy are valueless; only the rich realize the gulf that separates them from the poor,” but the uneasiness persisted and night after night she found herself being sent out of the room, asking or answering questions, performing actions in uncouth manners, paying forfeits, drawing pictures, writing verses, dressing herself up and even being chased about the house, and secluded in cupboards, at the will of her relatives. Christmas was on a Friday that year, so the party was a long one from Thursday until Monday.

She had forbidden Beaver to send her a present or to write to her; in self-protection, for she knew that whatever he said would hurt her by its poverty, but in spite of this she awaited the posts nervously, hoping that he might have disobeyed her. She had sent him to Ireland a ring of three interlocked hoops of gold and platinum. An hour after ordering it she regretted her choice. On Tuesday a letter came from him thanking her. Darling Brenda, he wrote.Thank you so very much for the charming Christmas present. You can imagine my delight when I saw the pink leather case and my surprise at opening it. It really was sweet of you to send me such a charming present. Thank you again very much for it. I hope your party is being a success. It is rather dull here. The others went hunting yesterday. I went to the meet. They did not have a good day. Mother is here too and sends you her love. We shall be leaving tomorrow or the day after. Mother has got rather a cold.

It ended there at the bottom of a page. Beaver had been writing it before dinner and later had put it in the envelope without remembering to finish it.

He wrote a large, schoolgirlish hand with wide spaces between the lines.

Brenda showed it to Marjorie who was still at Hetton. “I can't complain,” she said. “He's never pretended to like me much. And anyway it was a damned silly present.”

Tony had become fretful about his visit to Angela's. He always hated staying away.

“Don't come, darling. I'll make it all right with them.”

“No, I'll come. I haven't seen so much of you in the last three weeks.”

They had the whole of Wednesday alone together. Brenda exerted herself and Tony's fretfulness subsided. She was particularly tender to him at this time and scarcely teased him at all.

On Thursday they went North to Yorkshire. Beaver was there. Tony discovered him in the first half hour and brought the news to Brenda upstairs.

“I'll tell you something very odd,” he said. “Who do you think is here?”

“Who?”

“Our old friend Beaver.”

“Why's that odd particularly?”

“Oh I don't know. I'd forgotten all about him, hadn't you? D'you think he sent Angela a telegram as he did to us?”

“I daresay.”

Tony supposed Beaver must be fairly lonely and took pains to be agreeable to him. He said, “All kinds of changes since we saw you last. Brenda's taken a flat in London.”

“Yes, I know.”

“How?”

“Well, my mother let it to her, you know.”

Tony was greatly surprised and taxed Brenda with this. “You never told me who was behind your flat. I might not have been so amiable if I'd known.”

“No, darling, that's why.”

Half the house party wondered why Beaver was there; the other half knew. As a result of this he and Brenda saw each other very little, less than if they had been casual acquaintances, so that Angela remarked to her husband, “I daresay it was a mistake to ask him. It's so hard to know.”

Brenda never started the subject of the half finished letter, but she noticed that Beaver was wearing his ring, and had already acquired a trick of twisting it as he talked.

On New Year's Eve there was a party at a neighbouring house. Tony went home early and Beaver and Brenda returned together in the back of a car. Next morning, while they were having breakfast, she said to Tony, “I've made a New Year resolution.”

“Anything to do with spending more time at home?”

“Oh no, quite the reverse. Listen, Tony, it's serious. I think I'll take a course of something.”

“Not bone setters again. I thought that was over.”

“No, something like economics. You see I've been thinking. I don't really do anything at all at present. It's absurd to pretend I'm any use to John, the house runs itself. It seemed to me time I took to something. Now you're always talking about going into Parliament. Well if I had done a course of economics I could be some use canvassing and writing speeches and things — you know, the way Marjorie did when Allan was standing on the Clydeside. There are all sorts of lectures in London, to do with the University, where girls go, Don't you think it's rather a good idea?”

“It's one better than the bone setters,” Tony admitted. That was how the New Year began.