‘When oysters were more plentiful,’ he said affably, ‘it was one of the articles of indenture for apprentices that they should not be fed on them more than a strictly limited number of times in the week. Which doesn’t lead one to suppose that they were very popular, does it?’
Since his lordship was unable to refute this piece of recondite knowledge, he could think of no adequate retort, and therefore said nothing. So, having successfully put him in his place, Timothy continued in an easy, conversational tone: ‘Rather odd, the way different foods go in and out of fashion. My mother tells me that when she was a girl, for instance, scallops, which we think very well of, were considered to be too cheap and common to figure on any menu.’
‘I had the pleasure of meeting your mother at dear Mary Petersfield’s party,’ said Mrs Haddington. ‘I should so much like to know her better: what an interesting woman she is! How much I enjoyed her book describing her adventures on
the Congo border!’
Timothy, who shared with his half-brother, Mr James Kane, an ineradicable conviction that the Second World War had been inaugurated by providence to put an end to their beloved but very trying parent’s passion for exploring remote quarters of the globe, bowed, and murmured one of the conventional acknowledgements with which the more astute relatives of an author take care to equip themselves.
‘Is Norma Harte your mother?’ demanded Guisborough abruptly. ‘I can’t say I’ve read any of her books, but I’ve heard of her. She knows Equatorial Africa pretty well, doesn’t she? What are her views on the native question? Or hasn’t she any?’
Timothy had not read his mother’s books either, but he was not going to put up with this sort of thing. He replied with deceptive readiness: ‘Oh, rather! I believe she’s very sound. In fact, if you’re thinking of a safari you couldn’t do better than to consult her. She’ll tell you which tribes make the best carriers, and what you want to look out for in your headman, and what are the main pitfalls: Christianised boys, boys who try to talk English to you, and sit down in your chairs – that sort of thing!’
‘That,’ said Guisborough, reddening angrily, ‘is not what I meant! I was referring – though possibly this might not interest Lady Harte! – to –’
‘Oh, do shut up about Africa and natives!’ interrupted Cynthia. ‘I do think all that sort of thing is too boring!’
Mrs Haddington, although she could not but be glad of the intervention, uttered a reproving exclamation, looking rather anxiously at her daughter as she did so. Cynthia was in one of her petulant moods, rejecting most of the dishes offered to her, fidgeting with the cutlery, and taking no pains at all to be polite to her mother’s guests.
‘Tired, baby?’ asked Seaton-Carew, smiling at her across the table. ‘I suppose you’ve been on the go since breakfasttime, as usual?’
‘I’m afraid she has,’ said Mrs Haddington. ‘I think I shall have to have the telephone dismantled! It never stops ringing from morning till night, and always it’s someone wanting my frivolous daughter, isn’t it, Miss Birtley?’
‘Always,’ responded Beulah obediently.
‘Oh, Mummy, what lies you do tell!’ said Cynthia, hunching a pettish shoulder.
‘That reminds me,’ said Seaton-Carew, with what even Mr Harte acknowledged to be praiseworthy swiftness, ‘I’ve been cursing the telephone all day myself. Been expecting an important call, which hasn’t come through. I’ve told the Exchange to put any calls for me through to this number, Lilias. I knew you wouldn’t mind.’
In this he was mistaken. Mrs Haddington might be grateful to him for trying to cover up her daughter’s lapse, but she could scarcely be expected to contemplate with pleasure the prospect of seeing the smooth running of her Bridgeparty disturbed by the interruption of a telephone-call. Her response, though civil, was so lacking in cordiality that even Lord Guisborough became conscious of an atmosphere of constraint. However, Timothy was inspired to ask Cynthia if she had seen the latest gangster-film, showing at the Orpheum, a gambit which dispelled her ill-humour, and induced her to launch forth into an animated and enthusiastic discussion on this and several other films of the same order. The rest of dinner passed without untoward incident. Mrs Haddington rose from the table, playfully apologising for not being able to allow her male guests more than ten minutes with the port, and inviting them to join her in her boudoir for coffee. She then led the way out of the room, and while Cynthia went up to her bedroom to put more powder on her face and to exaggerate the already beautiful curve of her upper lip, she reminded Beulah what her various duties would be during the rest of the evening. Obedient to her command, Seaton-Carew brought his fellow-guests up to the boudoir in good time; and Thrimby, leaving a couple of flurried subordinates to clear away the remains of dinner and transform the dining-room into a refresh ment buffet, followed him with the coffee-tray, which he majestically offered to everyone in turn. Cynthia reappeared just as he was leaving the room, and nearly caused Seaton-Carew to spill his coffee by seizing his free hand and saying: ‘Oh, Dan darling, I’ve something fright fully important I want to tell you! Do come up to the drawing-room!’
‘Not now, my pet,’ said Mrs Haddington firmly. ‘You can talk to Dan some other time.’
‘But, Mummy, you don’t understand ! I particularly want to say something to him now!’
‘Darling, you’re forgetting! You must stay and entertain Lance, and Mr Harte. Besides, I want to have a word with Dan myself.’
‘We’ll go into a huddle together later on, Cynny,’ said
Seaton-Carew soothingly.
Cynthia pouted, and protested, but before her voice had developed more than a hint of a whining note her harassed parent had inexorably swept Mr Seaton-Carew off to the library, to discuss with him, she said, certain minor details of the approaching contest.
‘I do think people are sickening,’ Cynthia remarked. ‘Where’s my coffee? Oh, thanks, Timothy, you are an angel! Did you pour it out for me?’
She then gravitated, as though drawn by a magnet, to the radio-cabinet in one corner of the room, switched it on, and began to twiddle the dials. Lord Guisborough followed her, and Timothy seized the opportunity to say to Beulah, in an undervoice; ‘Aren’t we having fun? Have you had a bloody day? You look worn-out.’
‘That’s not very polite. I expected better things of that charming Mr Harte who has such lovely manners.’
‘Less of it, my girl!’ said Timothy.
At this moment a reverent voice announced that they were listening to the Third Preeogramme, and were about to be regaled with a composition by Meeozart. ‘This littlekneeown work,’ continued the voice, in the kindly tone of one addressing a class of backward students, ‘was compeeosed by Meeozart at the age of eighteen. It was originally –’
‘O God!’ ejaculated Cynthia, swinging the dial round.
This seemed, on the whole, to be fair comment. ‘Well said!’ approved Timothy. ‘I bar having my enjoyment of a concert marred by a patronising voice that tells me a lot of arid facts I am capable of looking up for myself, should I by
any chance wish to acquaint myself with them.’
‘Wireless programmes are not primarily intended for the privileged few who have had the opportunity and the leisure to acquire your culture!’ said Guisborough offensively.
‘Wireless programmes are neither primarily nor secondarily intended for cultured persons,’ replied Timothy, quite unruffled. ‘Too often they appear to be intended either for the entirely witless, or for those desirous of acquiring without effort a little easy knowl edge. I remember that someone once gave a fifteen minute talk on the Battle of Waterloo. A sobering thought.’
‘Well, at least that’s better than incessant and uninspiring glorification of the Little Man,’ said Beulah.
‘I suppose,’ said Guisborough contemptuously, ‘that you are one of those who fondly imagine that history is made by the so-called Great Man?’
‘Yes,’ replied Beulah. ‘I am.’
‘Good heavens, woman, you mustn’t say things like that!’ exclaimed Timothy, shocked. ‘Next you will say that the race is to the swift!’
Guisborough flushed angrily, but the retort he was seen to make was providentially drowned by the cacophony of sound produced by Cynthia’s efforts to discover a programme that appealed to her. While she rapidly travelled from one station to the next, conversation was impossible, and by the time she had switched the current off in disgust, Mrs Haddington had come back into the room with the curt announcement that the first of the guests was arriving. She too was somewhat flushed, and it was apparent to the most casual observer that her interview with Dan Seaton-Carew had not been attended by complete harmony. Her lips were compressed, and her nostrils slightly distended; and it was some moments before she was again able to assume her social smile. She drove her guests upstairs to the drawing-room, told Beulah rather harshly to see to it that the coffee-cups were removed from the boudoir, and swept out to receive Mr Sydney Butterwick.
Six
By the time Mr Sydney Butterwick had been relieved of his hat and coat, and sped on his way up the stairs to where Thrimby waited to announce his name, other guests were arriving. Mrs Haddington had stationed herself just within the door way to the front half of the drawing-room. This, since the room was L-shaped, faced the stairs, and stood at right-angles to the door leading into the back half of the room. Eight card-tables were set out in the drawing-room, the remaining three being relegated to the library on the ground floor.
Sydney Butterwick was a pretty youth, with fair, curly locks, a too-sensitive mouth, and an asthmatic constitu tion which had wrecked his early ambition to excel at games, and had later made him unacceptable to the authorities for military service. Very few people knew how deeply a canker of frustration had bitten into his soul, most of his acquaintances considering that he was that most fortunate of created beings: a rich man’s son, with a flourishing business to step into. But Sydney, realising at an age when life could be blighted by a broken ambition, that lack of physical stamina set his First Fifteen colours and the Drysdale Cup beyond his reach, could not be content to play Rugby football or squash for the mere pleasure these games afforded him. He abandoned sport for headier amusements; drifted at school into a precious set, thence into company even more dangerous for a youth of his unbalanced tempera ment; and, by the time he had attained his majority, had forgotten earlier and healthier ambitions, and reserved his enthusiasm for Surrealism, the Ballet, racing motor-cars, and several exotic pursuits denied to young men of more limited means. He was neurotic, passionate, and easily influenced, spoilt by parents and circumstance, and morbidly self-conscious. He would respond like a shy girl to flattery, but he was quick to imagine slights, and could fly in an instant from the extreme of affection to the opposite pole of wounded hatred. As a child he had revelled in being the focal point of his mother’s life; and he had never outgrown his desire of being petted, and admired. This led him to dislike girls, with whom he felt himself to stand in a relationship alien to his tempera ment, and to be happiest in the company either of elderly women who mothered him, or of such men as Dan Seaton-Carew.
There was no motherliness in Mrs Haddington’s manner towards him. She accorded him no more than a chilly smile, and two fingers to shake, her eyes going beyond him to the portly figure of that noted sportsman and bon viveur, Sir Roderick Vickerstown, who was heavily ascending the stairs in his wake. This immediately clouded Sydney’s pleasure. He mistook his hostess’s indifference for dislike, and was at once hurt and ill-at-ease. That he had no liking for her, and no particular desire to be invited to her house, weighed with him not at all: he could not be happy if he was not approved of. He lingered beside her for a moment, fidgeting with his tie, fancied that he could detect hostility in Sir Roderick’s choleric blue eye, and flung away to join Timothy and Guisborough, who were standing before the fire in the front drawing-room.
Guisborough, never one to disguise his sentiments, responded to his greetings with an ungracious nod; but Timothy was more civil, and even, since he was just about to light a cigarette, offered his case to him. Sydney was momentarily soothed, but as he stretched out his hand to take a cigarette, he most unfortunately caught sight of Dan Seaton-Carew, talking to Cynthia at the far end of the drawing-room.
That damsel, not to be baulked in her determination to get Seaton-Carew to herself, had dragged him into the back drawing-room, and appeared to be pouring some confidence into his ear. In her artless fashion, she had acquired a grip on the lapel of his coat. His attitude might have been described as fatherly by the charitably-minded. He stroked her shining head in a soothing way, and seemed to be uttering such words as a man might use to reassure an unreasonably troubled child.
Sydney uttered an exclamation, and hurried into the back drawing-room. ‘Dan!’ he said eagerly.
‘Bloody little pansy!’ remarked Lord Guisborough, drawn into brief fellowship with Mr Harte.
‘Dan!’ Sydney repeated. ‘I wondered if you’d be here! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’ He glanced at Cynthia, jealousy in his face, and said curtly: ‘How do you do? Dan, I rang you up five times, but your man said you were out!’
Seaton-Carew, like many before him, had grown tired of the exigencies of intimacy with his young friend. Moreover, he disliked having his tête-à-têtes interrupted. He said, rather brutally: ‘Yes, that’s what I told him to say. What the hell’s the matter anyway?’
Sydney flushed vividly, and stammered: ‘I haven’t seen anything of you for days! I was afraid you were ill, or something!’
‘Well, I’m not. Do, for God’s sake, stop barging in where you ought to be able to see you’re not wanted!’
The flush died, leaving Sydney’s face very white. ‘I see!’ he said, in a low, shaking voice. ‘That’s how it is, is it? When Cynthia’s around you’ve no use for me!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Seaton-Carew said roughly. ‘I’ve had enough of your scenes! Either behave like a reasonable being or get out! Making a damned exhibition of yourself – I’m fed up with it!’
‘You mean you’re fed up with me!’
‘All right, I mean that!’ Seaton-Carew said, exasperated.
Cynthia gave a nervous giggle, glancing towards the front drawing-room, where people were beginning to assemble. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ she whispered. ‘Mummy will have a fit !’
For a perilous moment it looked as though Sydney might so far forget himself as to strike Seaton-Carew. He stood staring at him, his eyes burning in his white face, and his fists clenching involuntarily. His chest heaved with something like a sob; he began to say something, in a trembling, almost inaudible voice, and was mercifully interrupted.
‘Cynthia darling! How sweet you look! Oh, Dan! How lovely!’
Lady Nest Poulton, a little wisp of a woman, with great eyes in a heart-shaped, haggard face, came up to the group in a cloud of chiffon; and Sydney, recollecting his surroundings, turned rather blindly away.
‘Charming frock! Dreadful young man!’ murmured Lady Nest, with her fleeting, appealing smile. ‘You know Godfrey, don’t you? Yes, of course you do!’ She hesitated for the fraction of a second, and added: ‘And Mr Seaton-Carew, Godfrey, whom you’ve met.’
Her husband, a stockily-built man, with a square, impassive countenance, favoured Seaton-Carew with an unsmiling stare, bowed infinitesimally, and turned from him to speak to Cynthia. The smile wavered pathetically on Lady Nest’s face; for a moment she looked nervous, her eyes shifting from him to Seaton-Carew, and away again; then she gave her empty tinkle of laughter, and flitted off to exchange over-affectionate greetings with a raddled brunette in petunia satin.
Sydney Butterwick, plunging away from the group like a stampeded mustang, startled several persons by his mien, which they afterwards described as distraught. He seemed to be making for the door, but fortunately for the smooth conduct of the Bridge-party he encountered a fellow balletomane, who hailed him with delight, e
xclaiming: ‘Sydney! I saw you last night. What did you think? Will she be a ballerina assoluta? Did you count her fouettés? Though I thought she was definitely at her best in the pas de quatre.’
These words had the happy effect of checking Sydney in mid-career. He responded automatically to them, and in an impassioned discussion on arabesques, élévations, enchaînements, ballerinas, and danseurs nobles, managed to recover himself. His eyes, and his twitching fingers, showed him to be still very much upset, but by the time his ecstatic acquaintance had deserted him for a middle-aged diplomat who could well remember the stars of the Maryinsky Theatre, he had apparently recollected the impropriety of incontinently rushing from the house; and went up to Sir Roderick Vickerstown instead, to discover from him who was to be his partner.
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