A Handful Of Dust

One

IT is not uncommon at Brat's Club, between nine and ten in the evening, to find men in white ties and tail coats sitting by themselves and eating, in evident low spirits, large and extravagant dinners. They are those who have been abandoned at the last minute by their women. For twenty minutes or so they have sat in the foyer of some restaurant, gazing expectantly towards the revolving doors and alternately taking out their watches and ordering cocktails, until at length a telephone message has been brought them that their guests are unable to come. Then they go to Brat's half hoping to find friends but, more often than not, taking a melancholy satisfaction in finding the club deserted or peopled by strangers. So they sit there, round the walls, morosely regarding the mahogany tables before them, and eating and drinking heavily.

It was in this mood and for this reason that, one evening towards the middle of February, Jock Grant-Menzies arrived at the club.

“Anyone here?”

“Very quiet tonight, sir. Mr. Last is in the dining room.” Jock found him seated in a corner; he was in day clothes; the table and the chair at his side were littered with papers and magazines; one was propped up in front of hire. He was half way through dinner and three quarters of the way through a bottle of Burgundy. “Hullo,” he said. “Chucked? Come and join me.”

It was some time since Jock had seen Tony; the meeting embarrassed him slightly, for like all his friends, he was wondering how Tony felt and how much he knew about Brenda and John Beaver. However, he sat down at Tony's table.

“Been chucked?” asked Tony again.

“Yes, it's the last time I ask that bitch out.”

“Better have a drink. I've been drinking a whole lot. Much the best thing.”

They took what was left of the Burgundy and ordered another bottle.

“Just come up for the night,” said Tony. “Staying here.”

“You've got a flat now haven't you?”

“Well Brenda has. There isn't really room for two … we tried it once and it wasn't a success.”

“What's she doing tonight?”

“Out somewhere. I didn't let her know I was coming … silly not to, but you see I got fed up with being alone at Hetton and thought I'd like to see Brenda so I came up suddenly on the spur of the moment, just like that. Damned silly thing to do. Might have known she'd be going out somewhere … she's very high principled about chucking … so there it is. She's going to ring me up here later, if she can get away.”

They drank a lot. Tony did most of the talking. “Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics,” he said. “I never thought it would last but she seems really keen on it … I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored … Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time … Anyway she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately … I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends.”

“People from the school of economics?”

“No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as `the old boy.' John heard them.”

“Well, that's friendly enough.”

“Yes, that's friendly.”

They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, “I say, come next week-end, will you?”

“I think I'd love to.”

“Wish you would. I don't see many old friends … Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that will you? … sociable chap, Jock … doesn't mind people about. I mind it like hell.” They drank some more port. Tony said, “Not enough bathrooms, you know … but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?”

“No, old boy.”

“Not even when I'm tight, like this? … There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans … but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy … I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics.”

“Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port.”

Tony said, “You seem pretty low tonight.”

“I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing.”

“I felt low, bloody low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more … discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, you feel low because your girl's chucked, and I feel low because mine won't chuck.”

“Yes, that's funny.”

“But you know I've felt low for weeks now … bloody low … how about some brandy?”

“Yes, why not? After all there are other things in life besides women and pigs.”

They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up.

Presently a page came to their table to say, “A message from Lady Brenda, sir.”

“Good, I'll go and speak to her.”

“It's, not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message.”

“I'll come and speak to her.”

He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. “Darling,” he said.

“Is that Mr. Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda.”

“Right, put me through to her.”

“She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you tonight. She's very tired and has gone home to bed.”

“Tell her I want to speak to her.”'

“I can't I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired.”

“She's very tired and she's gone to bed?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I want to speak to her.”

“Goodnight,” said the voice.

“The old boy's plastered,” said Beaver as he rang off.

“Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what can he expect, coming up suddenly like this. He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits.”

“Is he often like that?”

“No, it's quite new.”

The telephone bell rang. “D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it.”

“I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last.”

“Tony, darling, this is me, Brenda.”

“Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you.”

“I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?”

“Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come around and see you?”

“No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed.”

“We'll come and see you.”

“Tony, are you a tiny bit tight?”

“Stinking. Jock and I'll come and see you.”

“Tony, you're not to. D'you hear? I can't have you making a brawl. The flats are getting a bad name anyhow.”

“Their name'll be mud when Jock and I come.”

“Tony, listen, will you please not come, not tonight. Be a good boy and stay at the club. Will you please not?”

“Shan't be long.” He rang off.

“Oh God,” said Brenda. “This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Brat's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense.”

“That was Brenda.”

“So I gathered.”

“She's at the flat. I said that we'll go round.”

“Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda.”

“So am I. Grand girl.”

“Grand girl.”

“A lady on the telephone for you, Mr. Grant-Menzies.”

“Who?”

“She didn't give a name.”

“All right. I'll come.”

Brenda said to him, “Jock, what have you been doing to my husband.”

“He's a bit tight, that's all.”

“He's roaring. Look here he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him tonight in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“So, will you, please, keep him away. Are you tight too?”

“A little bit.”

“Oh dear, can I trust you?”

“I'll try.” .

“Well, it doesn't sound too good. Goodbye.” … John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag.”

“Was that your girl?”

“Yes.”

“Made it up?”

“Not exactly.”

“Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy and go round to Brenda straight away?”

“Let's have some more brandy.”

“Jock, you aren't still feeling low are you? Doesn't do to feel low. I'm not feeling low. I was, but I'm not any more.

“Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's.”

“All right.”

Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. “Tell' you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you.”

“Not drive?”

“No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk.”

“Who would?”

“Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk.”

“Well, so I am.”

“Then I shouldn't drive.”

“Too far to walk.”

“We'll take a taxi.”

“Oh hell, I can drive.”

“Or let's not go to Brenda's at all.”

“We'd better go to Brenda's” said Jock. “She's expecting us.”

“Well I can't walk all that way. Besides I don't think she really wanted us to come.”

“She'll be pleased when she sees us.”

“Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place.”

“I'd like to see Brenda,” said Jock. “I'm very fond of Brenda.”

“She's a grand girl.”

“She's a grand girl.”

“Well let's take a taxi to Brenda's.”

But half way Jock said, “Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint.”

“All the same to me. Tell him to go to some low joint.”

“Go to some low joint,” said Jock, putting his head through the window.

The cab wheeled round and made towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

“We can always ring Brenda from the low joint.”

“Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl.”

“Grand girl.”

The cab turned down Wardour Street and then into Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabitated for the most part by Asiatics.

“D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the old Sixty-four.”

“Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago.”

But the door was brightly illumined and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them.

The Sixty-four has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, the Sixty-four has maintained a solid front against all adversity. It has not been immune from persecution; far from it. Times out of number, magistrates have struck it off, cancelled its license, condemned its premises; the staff and until her death, the proprietress, have been constantly in and out of prison; there have been questions in the House and committees of enquiry, but whatever Home Secretaries and Commissioners of Police have risen into eminence and retired discredited, the doors of the Sixty-four have always been open from nine in the evening until four at night, and inside there has been an unimpeded flow of dubious, alcoholic preparations. A kindly young lady admitted Tony and Jock to the ramshackle building.

“D'you mind signing in?” Tony and Jock inscribed fictitious names at the foot of a form which stated,I have been invited to a Bottle Party at 64 Sink Street given by Mr. Charles Weybridge. “That's five bob each please.”

It is not an expensive club to run, because none of the staff, except the band, receive any wages; they make what they can by going through the overcoat pockets and giving the wrong change to drunks. The young ladies get in free but they have to see to it that their patrons spend money.

“Last time I was here, Tony, was the bachelor party before your wedding.”

“Tight that night.”

“Stinking.”

“I'll tell you who else was tight that night — Reggie. Broke a fruit gum machine.”

“Reggie was stinking.”

“I say, you don't still feel low about that girl?”

“I don't feel low.”

“Come on, we'll go downstairs.”

The dance room was fairly full. An elderly man had joined the band and was trying to conduct it. “I like this, joint,” said Jock. “What'll we drink?”

“Brandy.” They had to buy a whole bottle. They filled in an order form to the Montmorency Wine Company and paid two pounds. When it came it had a label saying Very Old Liquor Fine Champagne. Imported by the Montmorency Wine Co. The waiter brought ginger ale and four glasses. Two young ladies came and sat with them. They were called Milly and Babs. Milly said, “Are you in town for long?” Babs said, “Have you got such a thing as a cigarette?”

Tony danced with Babs. She said, “Are you fond of dancing?”

“No, are you?”

“So-so.”

“Well, let's sit down.”

The waiter said, “Will you a buy a ticket in a raffle for box of chocolates?”

“No.”

“Buy one for me,” said Babs.

Jock began to describe the specifications of the Basic Pig.

… Milly said, “You're married, aren't you?”

“No,” said Jock.

“Oh I can always tell,” said Milly. “Your friend is too.”

“Yes, he is.”

“You'd be surprised how many gentlemen come here just to talk about their wives.”

“He hasn't.”

Tony was leaning across the table and saying to Babs, “You see the trouble is my wife is studious. She's taking a course in economics.”

Babs said, “I think it's nice for a girl to be interested in things.”

The waiter said, “What will you be taking for supper?”

“Why we've only just had dinner.”

“How about a nice haddock?”

“I tell you what I must do, is to telephone. Where is it?”

“D'you mean really the telephone or the gentlemen's?”

“No, the telephone.”

“U'stairs in the office.”

Tony rang up Brenda. It was some time before she answered, then, “Yes, who is it?”

“I have a message here from Mr. Anthony Last and Mr. Jocelyn Grant-Menzies.”

“Oh, it's you Tony. Well, what do you want?”

“You recognized my voice?”

“I did.”

“Well, I only wanted to give a message but as I am speaking to you I can give it myself, can't I?”

“Yes.”

“Well Jock and I are terribly sorry but we can't come round this evening after all.”

“Oh.”

“You don't think it very rude I hope, but we have a lot to attend to.”

“That's all right, Tony.”

“Did I wake you up by any chance?”

“That's all right, Tony,”

“Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Tony went down to the table. “I've been talking to Brenda. She sounded rather annoyed. D'you think we ought to go round there.”

“We promised we would,” said Jock.

“You should never disappoint a lady,” said Milly.

“Oh it's too late now.”

Babs said, “You two are officers, aren't you?”

“No, why?”

“I thought you were.”

Milly said, “I like business gentlemen best, myself. They've more to say.”

“What d'you do?”

“I design postman's hats,” said Jock.

“Oh, go on.”

“And my friend here trains sea lions.”

“Tell us another.”

Babs said, “I got a gentleman friend who works on a newspaper.”

After a time Jock said, “I say, ought we to do something about Brenda?”

“You told her we weren't coming, didn't you?”

“Yes … but she might still be hoping.”

“I tell you what, you go and ring her up and find out if she really wants us.”

“All right.” He came back ten minutes later. “I thought she sounded rather annoyed,” he reported. “But I said in the end we wouldn't come.”

“She may be tired,” said Tony. “Has to get up early to do economics. Now I come to think of it someone did say she was tired, earlier on in the evening.”

“I say what's this frightful piece of fish?”

“The waiter said you ordered it.”

“Perhaps I did.”

“I'll give it to the club cat,” said Babs, “she's a dear called Blackberry.”

They danced once or twice. Then Jock said, “D'you think we ought to ring up Brenda again?”

“Perhaps we ought. She sounded annoyed with us.”

“Let's go now and ring her up on the way out.”

“Aren't you coming home with us?” said Babs.

“Not tonight, I'm afraid.”

“Be a sport,” said Milly.

“No, we can't really.”

“All right. Well how about a little present? We're professional dancing partners, you know,” said Babs.

“Oh yes, sorry, how much?”

“Oh, we leave that to the gentlemen.”

Tony gave them a pound. “You might make it a bit more,” said Babs. “We've sat with you two hours.” Jock gave another pound. “Come and see us again one evening when you've more time,” said Milly.

“I'm feeling rather ill,” said Tony on the way upstairs. “Don't think I shall bother to ring up Brenda.”

“Send a message.”

“That's a good idea … Look here,” he said to the seedy commissionaire. “Will you ring up this Sloane number and speak to her ladyship and say Mr. Grant-Menzies and Mr. Last are very sorry but they cannot call this evening. Got that?” He gave the man half a crown and they sauntered out into Sink Street. “Brenda can't expect us to do more than that,” he said.

“I tell you what I'll do. I go almost past her door so I'll ring the bell a bit just in case she's awake and still waiting up for us.”

“Yes, you do that. What a good friend you are, Jock.”

“Oh I'm fond of Brenda … a grand girl.”

“Grand girl … I wish I didn't feel ill.”

Tony was awake at eight next morning, miserably articulating in his mind the fragmentary memories of the preceding night. The more he remembered, the baser his conduct appeared to him. At nine he had his bath and some tea. At ten he was wondering whether he should ring Brenda up when the difficulty was solved by her ringing him.

“Well, Tony, how do you feel?”

“Awful. I was tight.”

“You were.”

“I'm feeling pretty guilty too.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“I don't remember everything very clearly but I have the impression that Jock and I were rather bores.”

“You were.”

“Are you in a rage?”

“Well, I was last night. What made you do it, Tony, grown up men like you two?”

“We felt low.”

“I bet you feel lower this morning … A box of white roses has just arrived from Jock.”

“I wish I'd thought of that.”

“You're such infants both of you.”

“You aren't really in a rage?”

“Of course I'm not, darling. Now just you go straight back to the country. You'll feel all right again tomorrow.”

“Am I not going to see you?”

“Not today I'm afraid. I've got lectures all the morning and I'm lunching out. But I'll be coming down on Friday evening or anyway Saturday morning.”

“I see. You couldn't possibly chuck lunch or one of the lectures.”

“Not possibly, darling.”

“I see. You are an angel to be so sweet about last night.”

“Nothing could have been more fortunate,” Brenda said. “If I know Tony he'll be tortured with guilt for weeks to come. It was maddening last night but it was worth it. He's put himself so much in the wrong now that he won't dare to feel resentful, let alone say anything, whatever I do. And he hasn't really enjoyed himself at all, the poor sweet, so that's a good thing too. He had to learn not to make surprise visits.”

“You are one for making people learn things,” said Beaver.

Tony emerged from the 3.18 feeling cold, tired, and heavy with guilt. John Andrew had come in with the car to meet him. “Hullo, daddy, had a good time in London? You didn't mind me coming to the station did you? I made nanny let me.”

“Very pleased to see you, John.”

“How was mummy?”

“She sounded very well. I didn't see her.”

“But you said you were going to see her.”

“Yes, I thought I was, but I turned out to be wrong. I talked to her several times on the telephone.”

“But you can telephone her from here, can't you, daddy? Why did you go all the way to London to telephone her? … Why, daddy?”

“It would take too long to explain.”

“Well, tell me some of it … Why, daddy?”

“Look here I'm tired. If you don't stop asking questions I shan't let you ever come and meet the trains again.” John Andrew's face began to pucker. “I thought you'd like me to come and meet you.”

“If you cry I shall put you in front with Dawson. It's absurd to cry at your age.”

“I'd sooner go in front with Dawson,” said John Andrew between his tears.

Tony picked up the speaking tube to tell the chauffeur to stop, but he could not make him hear. So he hitched the mouthpiece back on its hook and they drove on in silence, John Andrew leaning against the window and snivelling slightly. When they got to the house, he said, “Nanny, I don't want John to come to the station in future unless her ladyship or I specially say he can.”

“No, sir, I wouldn't have him come today only he went on so. Come along now, John, and take off your coat. Goodness, child, where's your handkerchief.”

Tony went and sat alone in front of the library fire. “Two men of thirty,” he said to himself, “behaving as if they were up for the night from Sandhurst — getting drunk and ringing people up and dancing with tarts at the Sixty-four … And it makes it all the worst that Brenda was so nice about it.” He dozed a little; then he went up to change. At dinner he said, “Ambrose, when I'm alone I think in future I'll have dinner at a table in the library.”

Afterwards he sat with a book in front of the fire, but he was unable to read. At ten o'clock he scattered the logs in the fireplace before going upstairs. He fastened the library windows and turned out the lights. That night he went into Brenda's empty room to sleep.

Two

That was Wednesday; on Thursday Tony felt well again. He had a meeting of the County Council in the morning. In the afternoon he went down to the home farm and discussed a new kind of tractor with his agent. From then onwards he was able to say to himself, “Tomorrow this time Brenda and Jock will be here.” He dined in front of the fire in the library. He had given up the diet some weeks ago. “Ambrose, when I am alone I don't really need a long dinner. In future I'll just have two courses.” He looked over some accounts his agent had left for him and then went to bed, saying to himself, “When I wake up it will be the week-end.”

But there was a telegram for him next morning from Jock saying, Week end impossible have to go to constituency how about one after next. He wired back, Delighted any time always here. “I suppose he's made it up with that girl,” Tony reflected.

There was also a note from Brenda, written in pencil:

Coming Sat. with Polly, and a friend of Polly's called Veronica in P.'s car. Maids and luggage on 3.18. Will you tell Ambrose and Mrs. Massop. We had better open Lyonesse for Polly you know what she is about comfort. Veronica can go anywhere — not Galahad. Polly says she's v. amusing. Also Mrs. Beaver coming, please don't mind it is only on business, she thinks she can do something to morning room. Only Polly bringing maid. Also chauffeur. By the way I'm leaving Grimshawe at Hetton next week tell Mrs. Massop. It's a bore and expense boarding her out in London. In fact I think I might do without her altogether what do you think? except she's useful for sewing. Longing to see John again. All going back Sunday evening. Keep sober, darling. Try.

xxxxxx

B.

Tony found very little to occupy his time on Friday. His letters were all finished by ten o'clock. He went down to the farm but they had no business for him there. The duties which before had seemed so multifarious, now took up a very small part of his day; he had not realized how many hours he used to waste with Brenda. He watched John riding in the paddock. The boy clearly bore him ill will for their quarrel on Wednesday; when he applauded a jump, John said, “She usually does better than this.” Later, “When's mummy coming down?”

“Not till tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“I've got to go over to Little Bayton this afternoon. Would you like to come too and perhaps we could see the kennels?”

John had for weeks past been praying for this expedition. “No, thank you,” he said. “I want to finish a picture I am painting.”

“You can do that any time.”

“I want to do it this afternoon.”

When Tony had left them Ben said, “Whatever made you speak to your dad like that for? You've been going on about seeing the kennels since Christmas.”

“Not with him,” said John.

“You ungrateful little bastard, that's a lousy way to speak of your dad.”

“And you ought not to say bastard or lousy in front of me, nanny says not.”

So Tony went over alone to Little Bayton where he had some business to discuss with Colonel Brink. He hoped they would asked him to stay on, but the Colonel and his wife were themselves going out to tea, so he drove back in the dusk to Hetton.

A thin mist lay breast high over the park; the turrets and battlements of the abbey stood grey and flat; the boiler man was hauling down the flag on the main tower.

“My poor Brenda, it's an appalling room,” said Mrs. Beaver.”

“Its not one we use a great deal,” said Tony very coldly.

“I should think not,” said the one they called Veronica. “I can't see much wrong with it,” said Polly, “except it's a bit mouldy.”

“You see,” Brenda explained, not looking at Tony. “What I thought was that I must have one habitable room downstairs. At present there's only the smoking room and the library. The drawing room is vast and quite out of the question. I thought what I needed was a small sitting room more or less to myself. Don't you think it has possibilities?”

“But, my angel, the shape's all wrong,” said Daisy. “And that chimney piece — what is it made of, pink granite, and all the plaster work and the dado. Everything's horrible. It's so dark.”

“I know exactly what Brenda wants,” said Mrs. Beaver more moderately. “I don't think it will be impossible. I must think about it. As Veronica says, the structure does rather limit one … you know I think the only thing to do would be to disregard it altogether and find some treatment so definite that it carried the room if you see what I mean … supposing we covered the walls with white chromium plating and had natural sheepskin carpet … I wonder if that would be running you in for more than you meant to spend.”

“I'd blow the whole thing sky-high,” said Veronica.

Tony left them to their discussion.

“D'you really want Mrs. Beaver to do up the morning room?”

“Not if you don't, sweet.”

“But can you imagine it — white chromium plating?”

“Oh, that was just an idea.”

Tony walked in and out between Mordred and Guinevere as he always did while they were dressing. “I say,” he said, returning with his waistcoat. “You aren't going away tomorrow too, are you?”

“Must.”

He went back to Mordred for his tie and bringing it to Brenda's room again, sat by her side at the dressing table to fasten it.

“By the way,” said Brenda, “what did you think about keeping on Grimshawe? — it seems rather a waste.”

“You used always to say you couldn't get on without her.”

“Yes, but now I'm living at the flat everything's so simple.”

“Living? Darling, you talk as though you had settled there for good.”

“D'you mind moving a second, sweet? I can't see properly.”

“Brenda, how long are you going on with this course of economics?”

“Me? I don't know.”

“But you must have some idea?”

“Oh it's surprising what a lot there is to learn … I was so backward when I started …”

“Brenda …”

“Now run and put on your coat. They'll all be down stairs waiting for us.”

That evening Polly and Mrs. Beaver played backgammon. Brenda and Veronica sat together on the sofa sewing and talking about their needlework; occasionally there were bursts of general conversation between the four women; they had the habit of lapsing into a jargon of their own which Tony did not understand; it was a thieves' slang, by which the syllables of each word were transposed. Tony sat just outside the circle, reading under another lamp.

That night when they went upstairs, the three guests came to sit in Brenda's room and talk to her while she went to bed. Tony could hear their low laughter through the dressing-room door. They had boiled water in an electric kettle and were drinking Sedobrol together.

Presently, still laughing, they left and Tony went into Brenda's room. It was in darkness, but hearing him come and seeing the square of light in the doorway, she turned on the little lamp by the bedside.

“Why, Tony,” she said.

She was lying on the dais with her head deep back in the pillows; her face was shining with the grease she used for cleaning it; one bare arm on the quilted eiderdown, left there from turning the switch. “Why, Tony,” she said, “I was almost asleep.”

“Very tired?”

“Mm.”

“Want to be left alone?”

“So tired … and I've just drunk a lot of that stuff of Polly's.”

“I see … well goodnight.”

“Goodnight … don't mind do you? … so tired.”

He crossed to the bed and kissed her; she lay quite still, with closed eyes. Then he turned out the light and went back to the dressing room.

“Lady Brenda not ill, I hope?”

“No, nothing serious, thank you very much. She gets rather done up in London, you know, during the week, and likes to take Sunday quietly.”

“And how are the great studies progressing?”

“Very well, I gather. She seems keen on it still.”

“Splendid. We shall all be coming to her soon to solve our economic problems. But I daresay you and John miss her?”

“Yes, we do rather.”

“Well please give her my kindest regards.”

“I will indeed. Thank you so much.”

Tony left the church porch and made his accustomed way to the hot houses; a gardenia for himself; four almost black carnations for the ladies. When he reached the room where they were sitting there was a burst of laughter. He paused on the threshold rather bewildered:

“Come in, darling, it isn't anything. It's only we had a bet on what coloured button-hole you'd be wearing and none of us won.”

They still giggled a little as they pinned on the flowers he had brought them; all except Mrs. Beaver who said, “Any time you are buying cuttings or seeds do get them through me. I've made quite a little business of it, perhaps you didn't know … all kinds of rather unusual flowers. I do everything like that for Sylvia Newport and all sorts of people.”

“You must talk to my head man about it.”

“Well to tell you the truth I have — this morning while you were in church. He seems quite to understand.”

They left early, so as to reach London in time for dinner. In the car Daisy said, “Golly what a house.”

“Now you can see what I've been through all these years.”

“My poor Brenda,” said Veronica, unpinning her carnation and throwing it from the window into the side of the road.

“You know,” Brenda confided next day, “I'm not absolutely happy about Tony.”

“What's the old boy been up to?” asked Polly.

“Nothing much yet, but I do see it's pretty boring for him at Hetton all this time.”

“I shouldn't worry.”

“Oh, I'm not worrying. It's only, supposing he took to drink or something. It would make everything very difficult.”

“I shouldn't have said that was his thing … We must get him interested in a girl.”

“If only we could … Who is there?”

“There's always old Sybil.”

“Darling, he's known her all his life.”

“Or Souki de Foucauld-Esterhazy.”

“He isn't his best with Americans.”

“Well we'll find him someone.”

“The trouble is that I've become such a habit with him — he won't take easily to a new one … ought she to be like me, or quite different?”

“I'd say, different, but it's hard to tell.”

They discussed this problem in all its aspects.

Three

Brenda wrote:

Darling Tony,

Sorry not to have written or rung up but I've had such a busy time with bimetallism. v. complicated.

Coming down Saturday with Polly again. Good her coming twice — Lyonesse can't be as beastly as most of the rooms can it.

Also charming girl I have taken up with who I want us to be kind to. She'd had a terrible life and she lives in one of these flats called Jenny Abdul Akbar. Not black but married one. Get her to tell you. She'll come by train 3.18 I expect. Must stop now and go to lecture.

Keep away from the Demon Rum.

xxxxx

Brenda.

Saw Jock last night at Café de Paris with shameless blonde. Who?

Cin no Djinn how? has rheumatism and Marjorie is v. put out about it. She thinks his pelvis is out of place and Cruttwell won't do him which is pretty mean considering all the people she has brought there.

“Are you certain Jenny will be Tony's tea?”

“You can't ever be certain,” said Polly. “She bores my pants off, but she's a good trier.”

“Is mummy coming down today, daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

“Someone called Abdul Akbar.”

“What a silly name. Is she foreign?”

“I don't know.”

“Sounds foreign, doesn't she, daddy? D'you think she won't be able to talk any English? Is she black?”

“Mummy says not.”

“Oh … who else?”

“Lady Cockpurse.”

“The monkey woman. You know she wasn't a bit like a monkey except perhaps her face and I don't think she had a tail because I looked as close as anything … unless perhaps she has it rolled up between her legs. D'you think she has, daddy?”

“I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Very uncomfortable.”

Tony and John were friends again; but it had been a leaden week.

It was part of Polly Cockpurse's plan to arrive late at Hetton. “Give the girl a chance to get down to it,” she said. So she and Brenda did not leave London until Jenny was already on her way from the station. It was a day of bitter cold and occasional rain. The resolute little figure huddled herself in the rugs until they reached the gates. Then she opened her bag, tucked up her veil, shook out her powder puff and put her face to rights. She licked the rouge from her finger with a sharp red tongue.

Tony was in the smoking room when she was announced; the library was now too noisy during the daytime for there were men at work on the walls of the morning room next door, tearing down the plaster tracery.

“Princess Abdul Akbar.”

He rose to greet her. She was preceded by a heavy odour of musk.

“Oh, Mr. Last,” she said, “what a sweet old place this is.”

“I'm afraid it's been restored a great deal,” said Tony.

“Ah, but its atmosphere. I always think that's what counts in a house. Such dignity, and repose, but of course you're used to it. When you've been very unhappy as I have, you appreciate these things.”

Tony said, “I'm afraid Brenda hasn't arrived yet. She's coming by car with Lady Cockpurse.”

“Brenda's been such a friend to me.” The Princess took off her furs and sat down on the stool before the fire, looking up at Tony. “D'you mind if I take off my hat?”

“No, no … of course.”

She threw it on to the sofa and shook out her hair, which was dead black and curled. “D'you know, Mr. Last, I'm going to call you Teddy right away. You don't think that very fresh of me? And you must call me Jenny. Princess is so formal, isn't it, and suggests tight trousers and gold braid … Of course,” she went on, stretching out her hands to the fire and letting her hair fall forwards a little across her face, “my husband was not called `Prince' in Morocco; his title was Moulay — but there's no proper equivalent for a woman so I've always called myself Princess in Europe … Moulay is far higher really … my husband was a descendant of the Prophet. Are you interested in the East?”

“No … yes. I mean I know very little about it.”

“It has an uncanny fascination for me. You must go there, Teddy. I know you'd like it. I've been saying the same to Brenda.”

“I expect you'd like to see your room,” said Tony. “They'll bring tea soon.”

“No, I'll stay here. I like just to curl up like a cat in front of the fire, and if you're nice to me I'll purr, and if you're cruel I shall pretend not to notice — just like a cat … Shall I purr, Teddy?”

“Er… yes … do, please, if that's what you like doing.”

“Englishmen are so gentle and considerate. It's wonderful to be back among them … mine own people. Sometimes when I look back at my life, especially at times like this among lovely old English things and kind people, I think the whole thing must be a frightful nightmare … then I remember my scars …”

“Brenda tells me you've taken one of the flats in the same house as hers. They must be very convenient.”

“How English you are, Teddy — so shy of talking about personal things, intimate things … I like you for that, you know. I love everything that's solid and homely and good after … after all I've been through.”

“You're not studying economics too, are you, like Brenda?”

“No; is Brenda? She never told me. What a wonderful person she is. When does she find the time?”

“Ah, here comes tea at last,” said Tony. “I hope you allow yourself to eat muffins. So many of our guests nowadays are on a diet. I think muffins one of the few things that make the English winter endurable.”

“Muffins stand for so much,” said Jenny.

She ate heartily; often she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting crumbs that had become embedded there and melted butter from the muffin. One drop of butter fell on her chin and glittered there unobserved except by Tony. It was a relief to him when John Andrew was brought in. “Come and be introduced to Princess Abdul Akbar.”

John Andrew had never before seen a Princess; he gazed at her fascinated.

“Aren't you going to give me a kiss?”

He walked over to her and she kissed him on the mouth.

“Oh,” he said, recoiling and rubbing away the taste of the lipstick; and then “What a beautiful smell.”

“It's my last link with the East,” she said.

“You've got butter on your chin.”

She reached for her bag, laughing. “Why so I have. Teddy, you might have told me.”

“Why do you call daddy, Teddy?”

“Because I hope we are going to be great friends.”

“What a funny reason.”

John stayed with them for an hour and all the time watched her fascinated. “Have you got a crown?” he asked. “How did you learn to speak English? What is that big ring made of? Did it cost much? Why are your nails that colour? Can you ride?”

She answered all his questions, sometimes enigmatically with an eye on Tony. She took out a little heavily scented handkerchief and showed John the monogram. “That is my only crown … now,” she said. She told him about the horses she used to have — glossy black, with arched necks; foam round their silver bits; plumes tossing on their foreheads; silver studs on the harness, crimson saddle cloths, “On the Moulay's birthday — “

“What's the Moulay?”

“A beautiful and a very bad man,” she said gravely, “and on his birthday all his horsemen used to assemble round a great square, with all their finest clothes and trappings and jewels, with long swords in their hands. The Moulay used to sit on a throne under a great crimson canopy.”

“What's a canopy?”

“Like a tent,” she said more sharply, and then resuming her soft voice, “and all the horsemen used to gallop across the plain, in a great cloud of dust, waving their swords, straight towards the Moulay. And everyone used to hold their breath, thinking the horsemen were bound to ride right on top of the Moulay, but when they were a few feet away, as near as I am to you, galloping at full speed, they used to rein their horses back, up on to their hind legs and salute — “

“Oh but they shouldn't,” said John. “It's very bad horsemanship indeed. Ben says so.”

“They're the most wonderful horsemen in the world. Everyone knows that.”

“Oh no, they can't be, if they do that. It's one of the worst things. Were they natives?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Ben says natives aren't humans at all really.”

“Ah but he's thinking of Negroes I expect. These are pure Semitic type.”

“What's that?”

“The same as Jews.”

“Ben says Jews are worse than natives.”

“Oh dear, what a very severe boy you are. I was like that once. Life teaches one to be tolerant.”

“It hasn't taught Ben,” said John. “When's mummy coming? I thought she'd be here, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped painting my picture.”

But when nanny came to fetch him, John, without invitation, went over and kissed Jenny goodnight. “Goodnight, Johnny-boy,” she said.

“What did you call me?”

“Johnny-boy.”

“You are funny with names.”

Upstairs, meditatively splashing his spoon in the bread and milk, he said, “Nanny, I do think that Princess is beautiful, don't you?”

Nanny sniffed. “It would be a dull world if we all thought alike,” she said.

“She's more beautiful than Miss Tendril, even. I think she's the most beautiful lady I've ever seen … D'you think she'd like to watch me have my bath?”

Downstairs, Jenny said, “What a heavenly child … I love children. That has been my great tragedy. It was when he found I couldn't have children that the Moulay first showed the Other Side of his Nature. It wasn't my fault … you see my womb is out of place … I don't know why I'm telling you all this, but I feel you'll understand. It's such a waste of time, isn't it, when one knows one is going to like someone and one goes on pretending … I know at once if someone is going to be a real friend …”

Polly and Brenda arrived just before seven. Brenda went straight up to the nursery. “Oh, mummy,” said John. “There's such a beautiful lady downstairs. Do ask her to come and say goodnight. Nanny doesn't think she'd want to.

“Did daddy seem to like her?”

“He didn't talk much … She doesn't know anything about horses or natives but she is beautiful. Please tell her to come up.”

Brenda went downstairs and found Jenny with Polly and Tony in the smoking room. “You've made a wild success with John Andrew. He won't go to sleep until he's seen you again.”

They went up together, and Jenny said, “They're both such dears.”

“Did you and Tony get on? I was so sorry not to be here when you arrived.”

“He was so sympathetic and gentle … and so wistful.” They sat on John's small bed in the night-nursery. He threw the clothes back and crawled out, nestling against Jenny. “Back to bed,” she said, “or I shall spank you.”

“Would you do it hard? I shouldn't mind.”

“Oh dear,” said Brenda, “what a terrible effect you seem to have. He's never like this as a rule.”

When they had gone nanny threw open another window. “Poof!” she said, “making the whole place stink.”

“Don't you like it? I think it's lovely.”

Brenda took Polly up to Lyonesse. It was a large suite, fitted up with satinwood for King Edward when, as Prince of Wales, he was once expected at a shooting party; he never came.

“How's it going?” she asked anxiously.

“Too soon to tell. I'm sure it will be all right.”

“She's got the wrong chap. John Andrew's mad about her … quite embarrassing.”

“I should say Tony was a slow starter. It's a pity she's got his name wrong. Ought we to tell her?”

“No, let's leave it.”

“When she was dressing Tony said, “Brenda, who is this joke-woman?”

“Darling, don't you like her?”

The disappointment and distress in her tone were so clear that Tony was touched. “I don't know about not liking her exactly. She's just a joke, isn't she?”

“Is she … oh dear … She's had a terrible life you know.”

“So I gathered.”

“Be nice to her, Tony please.”

“Oh, I'll be nice to her. Is she Jewish?”

“I don't know. I never thought. Perhaps she is.”

Soon after dinner Polly said she was tired and asked Brenda to come with her while she undressed. “Leave the young couple to it,” she whispered outside the door.

“My dear, I don't believe it's going to be any good … the poor boy's got some taste you know, and a sense of humour.”

“She didn't show up too well at dinner, did she?”

“She will go on so … and after all Tony's been used to me for seven years. It's rather a sudden change.”

“Tired?”

“Mmm. Little bit.”

“You gave me a pretty long bout of Abdul Akbar.”

“I know. I'm sorry, darling, but Polly takes so long to get to bed … Was it awful? I wish you liked her more.”

“She's awful.”

“One has to make allowances … she's got the most terrible scars.”

“So she told me.”

“I've seen them.”

“Besides I hoped to see something of you.”

“Oh.”

“Brenda, you aren't angry still about my getting tight that night and waking you up?”

“No, sweet, do I seem angry?”

“… I don't know. You do rather … Has it been an amusing week?”

“Not amusing, very hard work. Bimetallism you know.”

“Oh yes … well, I suppose, you want to go to sleep.”

“Mm … so tired. Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight.”

“Can I go and say good morning to the Princess, mummy?”

“I don't expect she's awake yet.”

“Please, mummy, may I go and see. I'll just peep and if she's asleep, go away.”

“I don't know what room she's in.”

“Galahad, my lady,” said Grimshawe who was putting out her clothes.

“Oh dear, why was she put there.”

“It was Mr. Last's orders, my lady.”

“Well, she's probably awake then.”

John slipped out of the room and trotted down the passage to Galahad. “May I come in?”

“Hullo, Johnny-boy. Come in.”

He swung on the handles of the door, half in, half out of the room. “Have you had breakfast? Mummy said you wouldn't be awake.”

“I've been awake a long time. You see I was once very badly hurt, and now I don't always sleep well. Even the softest beds are too hard for me now.”

“Ooh. What did you do? Was it a motor car accident?”

“Not an accident, Johnny-boy, not an accident … but come. It's cold with the door open. Look there are some grapes here. Would you like to eat them?”

John climbed on to the bed. “What are you going to do today?”

“I don't know yet. I haven't been told.”

“Well I'll tell you. We'll go to church in the morning because I have to and then we'll go and look at Thunderclap and I'll show you the place we jump and then you can come with me while I have dinner because I have it early and afterwards we can go down to Bruton wood and we needn't take nanny because it makes her so muddy and you can see where they dug out a fox in the drain just outside the wood, he nearly got away and then you can come and have tea in the nursery and I've got a little gramophone Uncle Reggie gave me for Christmas and it plays `When Father Papered the Parlour,' do you know that song. Ben can sing it, and I've got some books to show you and a picture I did of the battle of Marston Moor.”

“I think that sounds a lovely day. But don't you think I ought to spend some time with daddy and mummy and Lady Cockpurse?”

“Oh, them … besides it's all my foot about Lady Cockpurse having a tail. Please you will spend the day with me?”

“Well, we'll see.”

“She's gone to church with him. That's a good sign isn't it?”

“Well, not really, Polly. He likes going alone, or with me. It's the time he gossips to the village.”

“She won't stop him.”

“I'm afraid you don't understand the old boy altogether. He's much odder than you'd think.”

“I could see from your sermon that you knew the East, rector.”

“Yes, yes, most of my life.”

“It has an uncanny fascination, hasn't it?”

“Oh come on,” said John, pulling at her coat. “We must go and see Thunderclap.”

So Tony returned alone with the button-holes.

After luncheon Brenda said, “Why don't you show Jenny the house?”

“Oh yes, do.”

When they reached the morning room he said, “Brenda's having it done up.”

There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about.

“Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized.”

“It isn't a room we used very much.”

“No, but still …” she stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. “You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her … but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you.”

“Tell me more about your terrible life,” said Tony, leading her back to the central hall.

“You are shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too.”

Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. “Oh there you are,” said a firm, child's voice. “Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark.”

“Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy.”

“Come on. It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs.”

Tony crept into the library, habitable today, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. “Tony, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?”

“John took her off … just in time before I said something rude.”

“Oh dear … well there's only me and Polly in the smoking room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny — have you been asleep?”

“We must write it down a failure, definitely.”

“What does the old boy expect? It isn't as though he was everybody's money.”

“I daresay it would all have been all right, if she hadn't got his name wrong.”

“Anyway, this lets you out. You've done far more than most wives would to cheer the old boy up.”

“Yes, that's certainly true,” said Brenda.

Four

Another five days; then Brenda came to Hetton again. “I shan't be here next week-end,” she said, “I'm going to stay with Veronica.”

“Am I asked?”

“Well you were, of course, but I refused for you. You know you always hate staying away.”

“I wouldn't mind coming.”

“Oh, darling, I wish I'd known. Veronica would have loved it so … but I'm afraid it will be too late now. She's only got a tiny house … to tell you the truth I didn't think you liked her much.”

“I hated her like hell.”

“Well then …?”

“Oh, it doesn't matter. I suppose you must go back on Monday? The hounds are meeting here on Wednesday, you know.”

“Are we giving them a lawner?”

“Yes, darling, you know we do every year.”

“So we do.”

“You couldn't stay down till then?”

“Not possibly, darling. You see if I miss one lecture I get right behind and can't follow the next. Besides I am not mad keen to see the hounds.”

“Ben was asking if we'd let John go out.”

“Oh, he's far too young.”

“Not to hunt. But I thought he might bring his pony to the meet and ride with them to the first covert. He'd love it so.”

“Is it quite safe?”

“Oh, yes, surely?”

“Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him.”

“Do change your mind.”

“Oh no, that's quite out of question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony.”

That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. “The old boy's happy as a lark,” said Brenda to Marjorie. “He's settling down wonderfully to the new régime.”

They came in breathless and rather hurried for whisky and soda.

“Tony nearly had one through the window,” said Jock.

That night Tony slept in Guinevere.

“Everything is all right, isn't it,” he said once.

“Yes of course, darling.”

“I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things.”

“You aren't to brood, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed.”

“I won't brood any more,” said Tony.

Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.

“And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?”

“Absorbing.”

“We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdraft.”

“Ha, ha.”

“And how's Thunderclap?” asked Miss Tendril.

“I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday,” said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. “Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer,” he had kept repeating throughout the service.

Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hot houses; she helped him choose his button-hole.

Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the club house. Tony said, “We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?”

“Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme.”

“I wish you'd stay. Look here why don't you ask that girl down. Everyone goes tomorrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you.”

“I could.”

“Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse — Polly slept there two week-ends running so it can't be too uncomfortable.”

“She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her.”

“Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings I believe.”

“Yes, I might.”

“Jock's staying on. He's having the shameless blonde down. You don't mind?”

“Me? Of course not.”

“This has been a jolly week-end.”

“I thought you were enjoying it.”

“Just like old times — before the economics began.”

Marjorie said to Jock, “D'you think Tony knows about Mr. Beaver?”

“Not a thing.”

“I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?”

“She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough.”

“The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. If he did, it would soon be over … What an ass she is being.”

“I should say she was managing it unusually well, if you asked me.”

The other married couples said to each other, “D'you think Marjorie and Allan know about Brenda?”

“I'm sure they don't.”

Brenda said to Allan, “Tony's as happy as a sand-boy, isn't he?”

“Full of beans.”

“I was getting worried about him … You don't think he's got any idea about my goings on.”

“Lord no. It's the last thing that would come into his head.”

Brenda said, “I don't want him to be unhappy you know … Marjorie's been frightfully governessy about the whole thing.”

“Has she? I haven't discussed it with her.”

“How did you hear?”

“My dear girl, until this minute I didn't know you had any goings on. And I'm not asking any questions about them now.”

“Oh … I thought everyone knew.”

“That's always the trouble with people when they have affaires. They either think no one knows, or everybody. The truth is that a few people like Polly and Sybil make a point of finding out about everyone's private life; the rest of us just aren't interested.”

“Oh.”

Later he said to Marjorie, “Brenda tried to be confidential about Beaver this evening.”

“I didn't know you knew.”

“Oh I knew all right. But I wasn't going to let her feel important by talking about it.”

“I couldn't disapprove more of the whole thing. Do you know Beaver?”

“I've seen him about. Anyway, it's her business and Tony's, not ours.”

Five

Jock's blonde was called Mrs. Rattery. Tony had conceived an idea of her from what he overheard of Polly's gossip and from various fragments of information let fall by Jock. She was a little over thirty. Somewhere in the Cottesmore country there lived a long-legged, slightly discredited Major Rattery, to whom she had once been married. She was American by origin, now totally denationalized, rich, without property or possessions, except those that would pack in five vast trunks. Jock had had his eye on her last summer at Biarritz and had fallen in with her again in London where she played big bridge, very ably, for six or seven hours a day and changed her hotel, on an average, once every three weeks. Periodically she was liable to bouts of morphine; then she gave up her bridge and remained for several days at a time alone in her hotel suite, refreshed at intervals with glasses of cold milk.

She arrived by air on Monday afternoon. It was the first time that a guest had come in this fashion and the household was appreciably excited. Under Jock's direction the boiler man and one of the gardeners pegged out a dust sheet in the park to mark a landing for her and lit a bonfire of damp leaves to show the direction of the wind. The five trunks arrived in the ordinary way by train, with an elderly, irreproachable maid. She brought her own sheets with her in one of the trunks; they were neither silk nor coloured, without lace or ornament of any kind, except small, plain monograms.

Tony, Jock and John went out to watch her land. She climbed out of the cockpit, stretched, unbuttoned the flaps of her leather helmet, and came to meet them. “Forty-two minutes,” she said, “not at all bad with the wind against me.”

She was tall and erect, almost austere in helmet and overalls; not at all as Tony had imagined her. Vaguely, at the back of his mind he had secreted the slightly absurd expectation of a chorus girl, in silk shorts and brassière, popping out of an immense beribboned Easter Egg with a cry of “Whooppee, boys.” Mrs. Rattery's greetings were deft and impersonal.

“Are you going to hunt on Wednesday?” asked John. “They're meeting here you know.”

“I might go out for half the day, if I can find a horse. It'll be the first time this year.”

“It's my first time too.”

“We shall both be terribly stiff.” She spoke to him exactly as though he were a man of her own age. “You'll have to show me the country.”

“I expect they'll draw Bruton wood first. There's a big fox there, daddy and I saw him.”

When they were alone together, Jock said, “It's delightful your coming down. What d'you think of Tony?”

“Is he married to that rather lovely woman we saw at the Café de Paris?”

“Yes.'

“The one you said was in love with that young man?”

“Yes.”

“Funny of her … What's this one's name again?”

“Tony Last. It's a pretty ghastly house, isn't it?”

“Is it? I never notice houses much.”

She was an easy guest to entertain. After dinner on Monday she produced four packs of cards and laid out for herself on the smoking room table a very elaborate patience, which kept her engrossed all the evening. “Don't wait up for me,” she said. “I shall stay here until it comes out. It often takes several hours.”

They showed her where to put the lights out and left her to it.

Next day Jock said, “Have you got any pigs at the farm?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind if I went to see them?”

“Not the least — but why?”

“And is there a man who looks after them, who will be able to explain about them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think I'll spend the morning with him. I've got to make a speech about pigs, fairly soon.”

They did not see Mrs. Rattery until luncheon. Tony assumed she was asleep until she appeared in overalls from the morning room. “I was down early,” she explained, “and found the men at work stripping the ceiling. I couldn't resist joining in. I hope you don't mind.”

In the afternoon they went to a neighbouring livery stables to look for hirelings. After tea Tony wrote to Brenda; he had taken to writing letters in the past few weeks.

How enjoyable the week-end was, he wrote. Thank you a thousand times for all your sweetness. I wish you were coming down next week-end, or that you had been able to stay on a little, but I quite understand.

The Shameless Blonde is not the least what we expected — very serene and distant. Not at all like Jock's usual taste. I am sure she hasn't any idea where she is or what my name is.

The work in the morning room is going on well. The foreman told me today he thought he would begin on the chromium plating by the end of the week. You know what I think about that.

John can talk of nothing except his hunting tomorrow. I hope he doesn't break his neck. Jock and his S.B. are going out too.

Hetton lay near the boundary of three packs; the Pigstanton, who hunted it, had in the division of territory come off with the worst country and they cherished a permanent resentment about some woods near Bayton. They were a somewhat ill-tempered lot, contemptuous of each other's performance, hostile to strangers, torn by internal rancour; united only in their dislike of the Master. In the case of Colonel Inch this unpopularity, traditional to the hunt, was quite undeserved; he was a timid, inconspicuous man who provided the neighbourhood with sport of a kind at great personal expense. He himself was seldom in sight of hounds and could often be found in another part of the country morosely nibbling ginger nut biscuits in a lane or towards the end of the day cantering heavily across country, quite lost, a lonely scarlet figure against the ploughed land, staring about him in the deepening twilight and shouting at yokels for information. The only pleasure he gained from his position, but that a substantial one, was in referring to it casually at Board Meetings of the various companies he directed. .

The Pigstanton met twice a week. There was seldom a large field on Wednesdays, but the Hetton meet was popular; it lay in their best country and the prospect of stirrup cups had drawn many leathery old ladies from the neighbouring packs. There were also followers on foot and in every kind of vehicle, some hanging back diffidently, others, more or less known to Tony, crowding round the refreshment table. Mr. Tendril had a niece staying with him, who appeared on a motor bicycle.

John stood beside Thunderclap, solemn with excitement. Ben had secured a powerful, square-headed mare from a neighbouring farmer; he hoped to have a hunt after John had been taken home; at John's earnest entreaty nanny was confined indoors, among the housemaids whose heads obtruded at the upper windows; it was not her day. She had been out of temper while dressing him. “If I'm in at the death I expect Colonel Inch will blood me.

“You won't see any death,” said nanny.

Now she stood with her eyes at a narrow slit gazing rather resentfully at the animated scene below. “It's all a lot of nonsense of Ben Hacket's,” she thought. She deplored it all, hounds, Master, field, huntsman and whippers-in, Miss Tendril's niece in her mackintosh, Jock in rat-catcher, Mrs. Rattery in tall hat and cutaway coat oblivious of the suspicious glances of the subscribers, Tony smiling and chatting to his guests, the crazy old man with the terriers, the Press photographer, pretty Miss Ripon in difficulties with a young horse, titapping sideways over the lawn, the grooms and second horses, the humble, unknown followers in the background — it was all a lot of nonsense of Ben Hacket's. “It was after eleven before the child got to sleep last night,” she reflected, “he was that over-excited.”

Presently they moved off towards Bruton wood. The way lay down the South drive through Compton Last, along the main road for half a mile, and then through fields. “He can ride with them as far as the covert,” Tony had said.

“Yes, sir, and there'd be no harm in his staying a bit to see hounds working, would there?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And if he breaks away towards home, there'd be no harm in our following a bit, if we keeps to the lanes and gates, would there, sir?”

“No, but he's not to stay out more than an hour.”

“You wouldn't have me take him home with hounds running, would you, sir?”

“Well he's got to be in before one.”

“I'll see to that, sir.” “Don't you worry, my beauty,” he said to John, “you'll get a hunt right enough.”

They waited until the end of the line of horses and then trotted soberly behind them. Close at their heels followed the motor-cars, at low gear, in a fog of exhaust gas. John was breathless and slightly dizzy. Thunderclap was tossing her head and worrying at her snaffle. Twice while the field was moving off, she had tried to get away and had taken John round in a little circle, so that Ben had said, “Hold on to her, son” and had come up close beside him so as to be able to catch the reins if she looked like bolting. Once boring forwards with her head she took John by surprise and pulled him forwards out of his balance; he caught hold of the front of the saddle to steady himself and looked guiltily at Ben. “I'm afraid I'm riding very badly today. D'you think anyone has noticed?”

“That's all right, son. You can't keep riding-school manners when you're hunting.”

Jock and Mrs. Rattery trotted side by side. “I rather like this absurd horse,” she said; she rode astride and it was evident from the moment she mounted that she rode extremely well.

The members of the Pigstanton noted this with ill-concealed resentment for it disturbed their fixed opinion according to which, though all fellow members of the hunt were clowns and poltroons, strangers were without exception mannerless lunatics, and a serious menace to anyone within quarter of a mile of them.

Half way through the village Miss Ripon had difficulties in getting past a stationary baker's van. Her horse plunged and reared, trembling all over, turning about, and slipping frantically over the tarmac: They rode round her giving his heels the widest berth, scowling ominously and grumbling about her. They all knew that horse. Miss Ripon's father had been trying to sell him all the season, and had lately come down to eighty pounds. He was a good jumper on occasions but a beast of a horse to ride. Did Miss Ripon's father really imagine he was improving his chances of a sale by letting Miss Ripon make an exhibition of herself? It was like that skinflint Miss Ripon's father, to risk Miss Ripon's neck for eighty pounds. And anyway Miss Ripon had no business out on any horse …

Presently she shot past them at a canter; she was flushed in the face and her bun was askew; she leant back, pulling with all her weight. “That girl will come to no good,” said Jock.

They encountered her later at the covert. Her horse was sweating and lathered at the bridle but temporarily at rest cropping the tufts of sedge that lay round the woods. Miss Ripon was much out of breath, and her hands shook as she fiddled with veil, bun and bowler. John rode up to Jock's side.

“What's happening, Mr. Grant-Menzies?”

“Hounds are drawing the covert.”

“Oh.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh yes. Thunderclap's terribly fresh. I've never known her like this.”

There was a long wait as the horn sounded in the heart of the wood. Everyone stood at the corner of the big field, near a gate. Everyone, that is to say, except Miss Ripon who some minutes ago had disappeared suddenly, indeed in the middle of a sentence, at full gallop towards Hetton hills. After half an hour Jock said, “They're calling hounds off.”

“Does that mean it's a blank?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I hate this happening in our woods,” said Ben. “Looks bad.”

Indeed the Pigstantons were already beginning to forget their recent hospitality and to ask each other what did one expect when Last did not hunt himself, and to circulate dark reports of how one of the keepers had been observed last week burying Something late in the evening.

They moved off again, away from Hetton. Ben began to feel his responsibility. “D'you think I ought to take the young gentleman home, sir?”

“What did Mr. Last say?”

“He said he could go as far as the covert. He didn't say which, sir.”

“I'm afraid it sounds as if he ought to go.”

“Oh, Mr. Grant-Menzies.”

“Yes, come along, Master John. You've had enough for today.”

“But I haven't had any.”

“If you come back in good time today your dad will be all the more willing to let you come out another day.”

“But there mayn't be another day. The world may come to an end. Please, Ben. Please, Mr. Grant-Menzies.”

“It is a shame they shouldn't have found,” said Ben. “He's been looking forward to it.”

“Still I think Mr. Last would want him to go back,” said Jock.

So John's fate was decided; hounds went in one direction, he and Ben in another. John was very near tears as they reached the main road.

“Look,” said Ben, to encourage him. “Here comes Miss Ripon on that nappy bay. Seems as if she's going in, too. Had a fall by the looks of her.”

Miss Ripon's hat and back were covered with mud and moss. She had had a bad twenty minutes since her disappearance. “I'm taking him away,” she said. “I can't do anything with him this morning.” She jogged along beside them towards the village. “I thought perhaps Mr. Last would let me come up to the house and telephone for the car. I don't feel like hacking him home in his present state. I can't think what's come over him,” she added loyally. “He was out on Saturday. I've never known him like this before.”

“He wants a man up,” said Ben.

“Oh, he's no better with the groom and daddy won't go near him,” said Miss Ripon, stung to indiscretion. “At least … I mean … I don't think that they'd be any better with him in this state.”

He was quiet enough at that moment, keeping pace with the other horses. They rode abreast, she on the outside with John's pony between her and Ben.

Then this happened: they reached a turn in the road and came face to face with one of the single decker, country buses that covered that neighbourhood. It was not going fast and, seeing the horses, the driver slowed down still further and drew into the side. Miss Tendril's niece who had also despaired of the day's sport was following behind them at a short distance on her motor bicycle; she too slowed down and, observing that Miss Ripon's horse was likely to be difficult, stopped.

Ben said, “Let me go first, miss. He'll follow. Don't hold too hard on his mouth and just give him a tap.”

Miss Ripon did as she was told; everyone in fact behaved with complete good-sense.

They drew abreast of the omnibus. Miss Ripon's horse did not like it, but it seemed as though he would get by. The passengers watched with amusement. At that moment the motor bicycle, running gently in neutral gear, fired back into the cylinder with a sharp detonation. For a second the horse stood rigid with alarm; then, menaced in front and behind, he did what was natural to him and shied sideways, cannoning violently into the pony at his side. John was knocked from the saddle and fell on the road while Miss Ripon's bay, rearing and skidding, continued to plunge away from the bus.

“Take a hold of him, miss. Use your whip,” shouted Ben. “The boy's down.”

She hit him and the horse collected himself and bolted up the road into the village, but before he went one of his heels struck out and sent John into the ditch, where he lay bent double, perfectly still.

Everyone agreed that it was nobody's fault.

It was nearly an hour before the news reached Jock and Mrs. Rattery, where they were waiting beside another blank covert. Colonel Inch stopped hunting for the day and sent the hounds back to the kennels. The voices were hushed which, five minutes before, had been proclaiming that they knew it for a fact, Last had given orders to shoot every fox on the place. Later, alter their baths, they made up for it in criticism of Miss Ripon's father, but at the moment everyone was shocked and silent. Someone lent Jock and Mrs. Rattery a car to get home in, and a groom to see to the hirelings.

“It's the most appalling thing,” said Jock in the borrowed car. “What on earth are we going to say to Tony?”

“I'm the last person to have about on an occasion like this,” said Mrs. Rattery.

They passed the scene of the accident; there were still people hanging about, talking.

There were people hanging about, talking, in the hall at the house. The doctor was buttoning up his coat, just going.

“Killed instantly,” he said. “Took it full on the base of the skull. Very sad, awfully fond of the kid. No one to blame though.”

Nanny was there in tears; also Mr. Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. “It wasn't the kid's fault,” said Ben.

“It wasn't anyone's fault,” they said.

“He'd had a lousy day too poor little bastard,” said Ben. “If it was anyone's fault it was Mr. Grant-Menzie's making him go in.”

“It wasn't anyone's fault,” they said.

Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock carne in was, “We've got to tell Brenda.”

“D'you know where to get her?”

“She's probably at that school … But we can't tell her over the telephone … Anyway Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through … What on earth are we going to say to her?”

Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, “You weren't anywhere near were you?”

“No, we'd gone on to another covert.”

“That niece of Mr. Tendril's told me first … then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened … It's awful for the girl.”

“Miss Ripon?”

“Yes, she's just left … she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village … she was m a terrible state, poor child, what with that and … John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards … she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her forehead, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car … it wasn't her fault.”

“No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened.”

“That's it,” said Tony. “It just happened … how are we going to tell Brenda?”

“One of us will have to go up.”

“Yes … I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do …”

“I'll go,” said Jock.

“There'll be things to see to here … there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence … she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her … I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle.”

The two men stood in silence. Tony said, “Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?”

“Yes, I'll go,” said Jock.

Presently Mrs. Rattery came in. “Colonel Inch has been here,” she said. “I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy.”

“Is he still here?”

“No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt.”

“Nice of him to come … Were you having a good day?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton wood last week, John and I … Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda.”

“I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker.”

“Yes that will be quicker.'

“My maid can follow with the luggage by train … I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes.”

“I'll change too,” said Jock.

When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton.

“Will you tell Mr. Ambrose that Mrs. Rattery is leaving today. She is flying up with Mr. Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train.”

“Very good, sir.”

“They had better have some luncheon before they go. Something cold in the dining room. I will have it with them … And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming. Say I will write. And to Mr. Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is. And to the vicarage and ask Mr. Tendril if I can see him this evening. He's not here still?”

“No, sir, he left a few minutes ago.”

“Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mr. Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later.

It was perfectly quiet in the library for the workmen in the morning room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs. Rattery was ready first.

“They're just getting luncheon.”

“We shan't want any,” she said. “You forget we were going hunting.”

“Better have something,” said Tony, and then, “It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives.”

There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs. Rattery ask, “What are you going to do while you're waiting?”

“I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to.”

“Look here,” said Mrs. Rattery, “Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes.”

“It would be awful for you.”

“No, I'll stay.”

`Tony said, “I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would … I mean won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet, that it really happened.”

“It happened all right.”

The footman came to say that Mr. Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep.

“Mr. Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back tonight,” said Tony. “Mrs. Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives.”

“Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsman blow `Gone Away' at the funeral.”

“Say that I'll write to him,” and when the footman had left the room Tony said, “An atrocious suggestion.”

“Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful.”

“They don't like him much as Master.”

Jock left soon after half past two. Tony and Mrs. Rattery had coffee in the library.

“I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation,” said Tony. “After all we scarcely know each other.”

“You don't have to think about me.”

“But it must be awful for you.”

“And you must stop thinking that.”

“I'll try … the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it … I keep thinking of other things all the time.”

“I know. You don't have to say anything.”

Presently Tony said, “It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she's got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house … but with Brenda John always came first … naturally … And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her.”

“You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people.”

“But, you see, I know Brenda so well.”

Six

The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high overhead among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs. Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch.

“Only four o'clock?” he said. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No, just thinking … Jock will be more than half way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring.”

“It's a slow way to travel.”

“It's less than four hours ago that it happened … it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks.” There was a pause in which Mrs. Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. “It was twenty eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch … It was ten to one when they brought John in … just over three hours ago … It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?”

“It's always that way,” said Mrs. Rattery.

“Brenda will hear in an hour now … if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up; empty, when she goes out … and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours … It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight … Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too … I didn't like to leave John.”

(Mrs. Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backward and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.)

“… Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train, she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat … I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen, Jock coming and her surprise at seeing him, and then his telling her … It's awful for Jock … She may know at half past five or a bit earlier.”

“It's a pity you don't play patience,” said Mrs. Rattery.

“In a way I shall feel happier when she knows … it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know … I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five … I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small.”

Mrs. Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. “It's a heartbreaking game,” she said.

The clock struck again.

“Is that only quarter past? … You know I think I should have gone off my head if I were alone. It's nice of you to stay with me.”

“Do you play bezique?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Or piquet?”

“No. I've never been able to learn any card game except animal snap.”

“Pity.”

“There's Marjorie and several people I ought to wire to, but I'd better wait until I know that Jock has seen Brenda. Suppose she was with Marjorie when the telegram arrived.”

“You've got to try and stop thinking about things. Can you throw craps?”.

“No.”

“That's easy, I'll show you. There'll be some dice in the backgammon board.”

“I'm all right, really. I'd sooner not play.”

“You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through.”

She showed him how to throw craps. He said, “I've seen it on the cinema — pullman porters and taxi men.”

“Of course you have, it's easy … there you see you've won, you take all.”

Presently Tony said, “I've just thought of something.”

“Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?”

“Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be … perhaps with a photograph.”

“Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing.”

“But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?”

“There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait … Come on, boy, throw up.”

“I don't want to play any more. I'm worried.”

“I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me … you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?”

“I'm sorry … it isn't any good.”

He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. “At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club.”

“That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?”

“Snap.”

“Well you come show me that.”

“It's just a child's game.. It would be ridiculous with two.

“I'll learn it.”

“Well each of us chooses an animal.”

“All right, I'm a hen and you're a dog. Now what?”

Tony explained.

“I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them,” said Mrs. Rattery. “But I'll try anything.”

They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. “Bow-wow,” said Mrs. Rattery, scooping in the cards.

Another pair. “Bow-wow,” said Mrs. Rattery. “You know you aren't putting your heart into this.”

“Oh,” said Tony. “Coop-coop-coop.”

Presently he said again, “Coop-coop-coop.”

“Don't be dumb,” said Mrs. Rattery, “that isn't a pair …”

They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs. Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room.

“What must that man have thought?” said Tony, when he had gone out.

(“Sitting there clucking like a `en,” Albert reported, “and the little fellow lying dead upstairs.”)

“We'd better stop.”

“It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know.”

She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. “Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now.”

Mrs. Rattery said, “I'd rather like some whisky.”

Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs. Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs. Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was ten past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. “Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?”

“I am. Is she a friend of yours?”

“Oh such a friend,” said Princess Abdul Akbar.

“Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?”

“I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?”

“I had better come and see her.”

“Well wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside.”

The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Thibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lallique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a wastepaper basket made of varnished aquatints, a polliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking glass, Jock behind her on the divan.

“What's your name?”' she asked over her shoulder. He told her. “Oh, yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last … such a quaint old place.”

“I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning.”

Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. “Quick,” she whispered. “Tell me. I can't bear it. Is itdeath?”

John nodded. “Their little boy … kicked by a horse.”

“Little Jimmy.”

“John.”

“John … dead. It's too horrible.”

“It wasn't anybody's fault.”

“Oh yes,” said Jenny. “It was. It was my fault. I ought never to have gone there … a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow … if only it was I that was dead … I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess … that brave little life snuffed out.”

“I say you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it.”

“It isn't the first time it's happened … always, anywhere, I am hunted down … without remorse. O God,” said Jenny Abdul Akbar. “What have I done to deserve it?”

She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, “Well I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda.”

“Wait a minute and I'll come too.” She had brightened a little when she emerged. “Have you got a car here,” she asked, “or shall I ring up a taxi?”

After tea Mr. Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs. Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs. Rattery had resumed her patience. “Bad interview?” she asked without looking up.

“Awful.” He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more.

“Bring me one too, will you?”

Tony. said, “I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful … after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion.”

“Some like it,” said Mrs. Rattery.

“Of course,” Tony began, after a pause, “when you haven't got children yourself — ”

“I've got two sons,” said Mrs. Rattery.

“Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize … we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me.”

“That's all right, People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good looking I think. His father is.”

“Quarter past six,” said Tony. “He's bound to have told her by now.”

There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucauld-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs. Northcote. Mrs. Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs. Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. “What a time she is taking over Daisy.”

“She is very thorough,” said Polly, “and it tickles rather.”

Presently Daisy emerged. “What was she like?” they asked.

“I mustn't tell or it spoils it all,” said Daisy.

They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs. Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs. Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen.

Next door they said, “Where's her Mr. Beaver today?”

“He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wall papers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident.”

“It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself …”

“You must never do anything on Thursdays,” said Mrs. Northcote.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities.”

“Isn't there anything about love?”

“I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers.”

“Yes, go on some more about that …”

Princess Abdul Akbar was announced.

“Where's Brenda?” she said. “I thought she'd be here.”

“Mrs. Northcote's doing her now.”

“Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs.”

“Darling Jock … Why on earth didn't you bring him up.”

“No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone.”

“My dear, how mysterious. Well she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs. Northcote.”

Jenny told them her news.

On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. “Four men dominate your fate,” Mrs, Northcote was saying, “one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him.”

“Dear me,” said Brenda. “How very exciting. Who can they be?”

“One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious.”

“I bet that's my Mr. Beaver, bless him.”

Downstairs Jock sat waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six.

Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe, and joined the ladies. “Most enjoyable,” she pronounced. “Why how odd you all look.”

“Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs.”

“Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful is it?”

“You better go and see him.”

Suddenly, Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting.

“What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful is it?”

“I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident.”

“John?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?” He nodded.

She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, “Tell me what happened? Why do you know about it first?”

“I've been down at Hetton since the week-end.”

“Hetton?”

“Don't you remember? John was going hunting today.”

She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. “John … John Andrew … I … Oh thank God …” Then she burst into tears.

She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back.

Upstairs Mrs. Northcote had Souki de Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, “There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love …”

In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper's room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it.

“This is Jock speaking. I've just seen Brenda. She's coming down by the seven o'clock train.”

“Is she terribly upset?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Where is she now?”

“She's with me. I'm speaking from Polly's.”

“Shall I talk to her?”

“Better not.”

“All right … I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?”

“No.”

“Well you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs. Rattery.”

“Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off.”

She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, “Yes, I'll go by that train.”

“We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat.”

“My bag … upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again.”

She did not speak on the way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. “There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Jock told her.

“Poor little boy,” she said. “Poor little boy.”

Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. “That's everything,” she said. “There's still too much time.”

“Would you like anything to eat?”

“Oh no, nothing to eat.” She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do anything to her face. “When you first told me,” she said, “I didn't understand. I didn't know what I was saying.”

“I know.”

“I didn't say anything, did I?”

“You know what you said.”

“Yes, I know … I didn't mean … I don't think it's any good trying to explain.”

Jock said, “Are you sure you've got everything?”

“Yes, that's everything,” she nodded towards the little case on the bed. She looked quite hopeless.

“Well, we'd better go to the station.”

“All right. It's early. But it doesn't matter.”

Jock took her to the train. As it was Wednesday the carriages were full of women returning after their day's shopping.

“Why not go first class?”

“No, no. I always go third.”

She sat in the middle of a row. The women on either side looked at her curiously wondering if she were ill.

“Don't you want anything to read?”

“Nothing to read.”

“Or eat?”

“Or eat.”

“Then I'll say goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Another woman pushed past Jock into the carriage, laden with light parcels.

When the news became known Marjorie said to Allan, “Well, anyway, this will mean the end of Mr. Beaver.” But Polly Cockpurse said to Veronica, “That's the end of Tony so far as Brenda is concerned.”

The impoverished Lasts were stunned by the telegram. They lived on an extensive but unprofitable chicken farm near Great Missenden. It did not enter the heads of any of them that now, if anything happened, they were the heirs to Hetton. Had it done so, their grief would have been just as keen.

Jock drove from Paddington to Brat's. One of the men by the bar said, “Ghastly thing about Tony Last's boy.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“No, were you? What a ghastly thing.”

Later a telephone message came: “Princess Abdul Akbar wishes to know whether you are in the club.”

“No, no, tell her I'm not here,” said Jock.

Seven

The inquest was held at eleven o'clock next morning; it was soon over. The doctor, the bus-driver, Ben and Miss Ripon gave evidence. Miss Ripon was allowed to remain seated. She was very white and spoke in a trembling voice; her father glared at her from a near-by seat; under her hat was a small bare patch, where they had shaved off the hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr. Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to reach their car. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow.

Brenda said, “Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl.”

She did it charmingly. When they were in the car, Tony said, “I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them.”

“What did you do all day?”

“There was the shameless blonde … we played animal snap some of the time.”

“Animal snap? Was that any good?”

“Not much … It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened.”

“Poor little boy,” said Brenda.

They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs. Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary.

A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind: white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore.

Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. “Nothing to say, is there?”

“There's no need to talk.”

“No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral.”

“Well, of course.”

“Yes; tomorrow?”

She looked into the morning room. “They've done quite a lot, haven't they?”

All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said “Don't,” not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, “I'll go and finish those letters.”

“Yes.”

“See you at luncheon.”

“Yes.”

She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her.

In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it.

Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. “If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him.”

The heavy scent and crowned cypher at its corner proclaimed its origin.

“I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her.”

“Can't think how it came to be there,” said nanny.

“Poor little boy. Poor little boy,” said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape.

“I was thinking about the pony, sir.”

“Oh yes, Ben.”

“Will you want to be keeping her now?”

“I hadn't thought … no, I suppose not.”

“Mr. Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl.”

“Yes.”

“How much shall we be asking?”

“Oh, I don't know … whatever you think is right. “She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir.”

“All right, Ben, you see about it.”

“I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit.”

“Do just what you think best.”

“Very good, sir.”

At luncheon Tony said, “Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do.”

“How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?”

“Would you like that?”

“I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's.”

“You're going to Veronica's?”

“Yes, don't you remember?”

There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, “Are you really going. away?”

“Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere.”

Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. “I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here.”

“Darling, what do you mean?”

“Don't ask me to explain … not just now.”

“But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son but …”

“Don't go on Tony, please don't go on.”

So Tony stopped and after a time said, “So you're going to Veronica's tomorrow?”

“Mmmm.”

“I think I will ask Jock to come.”

“Yes, I should.”

“And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things.”

“Yes, later.”

Next morning.

“A sweet letter from mother,” said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St. Cloud had written:

… I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow …

“I got a telegram from Jock,” said Tony, “he can come.”

“It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming,” said Veronica. “I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her.”

Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, “I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's because they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened … all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here … quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help.”

Jock did not answer.

Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, “Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you.”

“Well you've said it often enough.”

“I'm going to make you understand,” said Brenda. “You clod.”

On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray.

Darling Tony,

I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more.

You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong.

I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me.

Best love from

Brenda.

When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. “She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge,” he said.

But later he showed the letter to Jock who said, “I'm sorry it should have happened like this.”

“But it's not true, is it?”

“Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time.”

But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda.