บทที่ บทที่ 26 · Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised

. Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised

well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that

Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted

the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the

house gathered itself together and fell over the garden. A cat looked

up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding

the mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only

visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches.

Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but

it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of

whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down

from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower

hills, thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the

prospect from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the

friends she would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry

himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector

of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he was

a friend of her father’s, and so knew what to find in her. She liked

him. He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir

James Bidder sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he

would whip up the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir

James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she

doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for the county families when

they did call, she was content.

Charles and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a

morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-dresses.

She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that

the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their

contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not

be found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical,

while the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in

the garden. Then came a difficulty about a spring-board, and soon three

people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders

and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted

to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would

benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a

walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not

bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and

the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the

life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as

milksops beat them, even on their own ground?

She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day—no

worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections

were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the

cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, “Good-morning,

dear,” a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked

round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the

shed, and was seen no more.

“Miss Wilcox is up—” the child whispered, and then became

unintelligible.

“What’s that?”

It sounded like, “—cut-yoke—sack back—”

“I can’t hear.”

“—On the bed—tissue-paper—”

Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be

seemly, she went to Evie’s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a

petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the

other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed,

they sang, and the dog barked.

Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not

feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her

equipment.

Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just

then!” Then Margaret went down to breakfast.

Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was,

in Margaret’s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion

successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss

of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt

intact, only issuing orders occasionally—orders that promoted the

comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour

out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came

down there was a moment’s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate

their places. “Burton,” called Henry, “serve tea and coffee from the

side-board!” It wasn’t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort—the

sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations

at Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by

item, never raising his eyes to the whole, and “Death, where is thy

sting? Love, where is thy victory?” one would exclaim at the close.

After breakfast she claimed a few words with him. It was always best to

approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was

going on to shoot grouse tomorrow, and she was returning to Helen in

town.

“Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the time. What do you

want?”

“Nothing.”

“I was afraid something had gone wrong.”

“No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.”

Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate.

She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his

without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help

him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the

more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would

set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair

weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its

sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each

parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the

tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow.

Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too

clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities,

as today, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon

him, she could respond.

“If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t we walk to the

church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very

well go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages.”

“One can’t have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells

wouldn’t like it; they were awfully particular at Charles’s wedding.

My—she—one of our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church

was just round the corner, and I shouldn’t have minded; but the Colonel

made a great point of it.”

“You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret thoughtfully.

“Why not?”

She knew why not, but said that she did not know.

He then announced that, unless she had anything special to say, he must

visit the wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton.

Though clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country

house. They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after

room, and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties.

The wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they came back from

church, and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many

agitated and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that

they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the

lower wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial

glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-tails. His mind could

not grasp their greatness, and he said: “By your leave; let me pass,

please.” Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new

that they did not know one another’s names. In the still-room sat the

band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who

were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen,

mingled with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it

happened at Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over,

and the cook was throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last

they came upon the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret

down the cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her

wine at the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight.

“We shall never get through it!” she cried, and the two men were

suddenly drawn into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if

she had again jumped out of the car while it was moving.

Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small

business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an

establishment. She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her

own, since a shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies;

and she must assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no

right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the

power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its

possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to

create new sanctities among these hills.

After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding,

which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it.

Everything went like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill materialized out of space,

and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the

ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie’s train, or cried.

In a few minutes—the clergymen performed their duty, the register was

signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the

dangerous curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had

not been married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all

the time on other business.

There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to

eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There

had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big

affair—not as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and the

strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was

proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of

Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only someone had been upset! But this

wedding had gone off so particularly well—“quite like a Durbar” in the

opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.

So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off,

yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated

towards the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned,

came up to her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness,

said that he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt

that he was praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all

she could with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of

kowtowing to the men. They were breaking camp this evening: only the

Warringtons and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were

already moving towards the house to finish their packing. “I think it

did go off well,” she agreed. “Since I had to jump out of the motor,

I’m thankful I lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it,

Henry dear; I only hope that the guests at ours may be half as

comfortable. You must all remember that we have no practical person

among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to entertainments on a

large scale.”

“I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circumstances, it would be better

to put everything into the hands of Harrod’s or Whiteley’s, or even to

go to some hotel.”

“You desire a hotel?”

“Yes, because—well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want to

be married from your old home.”

“My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it

a perfect evening—”

“The Alexandrina isn’t bad—”

“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke

that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes

with parallels of grey.

“It’s off Curzon Street.”

“Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.”

Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the

river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the

bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s

bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when

they moved back to the house, she could not recognize the faces of

people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.

“Who are those people?” she asked.

“They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.”

“Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.”

“I’m not at home yet to townees.”

“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.”

He thanked her.

Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were

unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious

civility, since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others

in their rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For

one of the group was Helen—Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated

by that tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their

nursery days.

“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?”

Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward

furiously.

“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!”

“Who? Why have you come?”

“The Basts.”

“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?”

“He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s

done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you’ll tell

me it’s the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She

fainted in the train.”

“Helen, are you mad?”

“Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve brought them. I’ll stand

injustice no longer. I’ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this

luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what

we’re too slack to do ourselves.”

“Have you actually brought two starving people from London to

Shropshire, Helen?”

Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria

abated. “There was a restaurant car on the train,” she said.

“Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you know it. Now, begin

from the beginning. I won’t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare

you! Yes, how dare you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “bursting

in to Evie’s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you’ve a

perverted notion of philanthropy. Look”—she indicated the

house—“servants, people out of the windows. They think it’s some vulgar

scandal, and I must explain, ‘Oh no, it’s only my sister screaming, and

only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no

conceivable reason.’”

“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,’” said Helen, ominously calm.

“Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to

avoid a real quarrel. “I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why

you’ve brought them here, or why you’re here yourself.

“It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.”

Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to

worry Henry.

“He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“I knew it was our last chance.”

“How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to control her voice.

“This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?”

“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen.

Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and,

furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could

not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept

down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the

furniture, provided them with a dinner and breakfast, and ordered them

to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested,

and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn’t go. But

she, half mesmerized, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they

must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into

Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and

grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid

torrents of expensive scent. “You have fainted,” said the lady in an

awe-struck voice. “Perhaps the air will do you good.” And perhaps it

had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.

“I’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard, in answer to

Margaret’s question. “But you have been so kind to me in the past in

warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered—why, I wondered

whether—”

“Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,” supplied

Helen. “Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening’s work

that was on Chelsea Embankment.”

Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.

“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it

was a bad concern, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“And went into a bank instead?”

“I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced their staff after

he had been in a month, and now he’s penniless, and I consider that we

and our informant are directly to blame.”

“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered.

“I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it’s no good mincing matters. You have

done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr.

Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a

very great mistake.”

“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen.

“I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false

position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It’s too late to get to

town, but you’ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast

can rest, and I hope you’ll be my guests there.”

“That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said Leonard. “You’re very

kind, and no doubt it’s a false position, but you make me miserable. I

seem no good at all.”

“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t you see?”

Then he said: “Jacky, let’s go. We’re more bother than we’re worth.

We’re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for

us, and they never will. There’s nothing we’re good enough to do.”

“We would like to find you work,” said Margaret rather conventionally.

“We want to—I, like my sister. You’re only down in your luck. Go to the

hotel, have a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the

bill, if you prefer it.”

But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I shall never get

work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.

Not I. I had my groove, and I’ve got out of it. I could do one

particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to

command a salary, but that’s all. Poetry’s nothing, Miss Schlegel.

One’s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is

nothing, if you’ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once

loses his own particular job, it’s all over with him. I have seen it

happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in

the end they fall over the edge. It’s no good. It’s the whole world

pulling. There always will be rich and poor.”

He ceased.

“Won’t you have something to eat?” said Margaret. “I don’t know what to

do. It isn’t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to

see you at any other time—as I say, I don’t know what to do, but I

undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try

a sandwich, Mrs. Bast.”

They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing.

Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne,

remained almost intact: their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard

refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them

whispering together and had a few more words with Helen.

She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I

agree that we are directly responsible.”

“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.”

“Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I’ll

do nothing. No doubt you’re right logically, and are entitled to say a

great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So

choose.

Helen looked at the sunset.

“If you promise to take them quietly to the George, I will speak to

Henry about them—in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this

absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was

only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work,

and that we can’t give him, but possibly Henry can.”

“It’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen.

“Nor am I concerned with duty. I’m concerned with the characters of

various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things

may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours: all

business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff,

because I want to make things a little better.”

“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.”

“Take them off to the George, then, and I’ll try. Poor creatures! but

they look tried.” As they parted, she added: “I haven’t nearly done

with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can’t get

over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older.

Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan’t have happy lives.”

She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these

physical matters were important. “Was it townees?” he asked, greeting

her with a pleasant smile.

“You’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting down beside him.

“It’s all right now, but it was my sister.”

“Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But she refused the

invitation. I thought she despised weddings.”

“Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I’ve bundled her off to

the George.”

Inherently hospitable, he protested.

“No; she has two of her protégés with her, and must keep with them.”

“Let ’em all come.”

“My dear Henry, did you see them?”

“I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly.

“The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and

salmon bunch?”

“What! are they out beanfeasting?”

“No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to

you about them.”

She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how

tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of

woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: “Why

later on? Tell me now. No time like the present.”

“Shall I?”

“If it isn’t a long story.”

“Oh, not five minutes; but there’s a sting at the end of it, for I want

you to find the man some work in your office.”

“What are his qualifications?”

“I don’t know. He’s a clerk.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-five, perhaps.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bast,” said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at

Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful

meeting.

“Where was he before?”

“Dempster’s Bank.”

“Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering nothing.

“They reduced their staff.”

“All right; I’ll see him.”

It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she

understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon,

when condemning suffragettes, had said: “The woman who can’t influence

her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself.”

Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though

pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the

methods of the harem.

“I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I don’t know whether

he’s qualified.”

“I’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn’t be taken as a

precedent.”

“No, of course—of course—”

“I can’t fit in your protégés every day. Business would suffer.”

“I can promise you he’s the last. He—he’s rather a special case.”

“Protégés always are.”

She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of

complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf

between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And

she herself—hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as

they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth—their

warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and

if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was

reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.

“Your protégé has made us late,” said he. “The Fussells will just be

starting.”

On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts

as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were

discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the

world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river

and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer

hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees

were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border

warfare between the Anglo Saxon and the Kelt, between things as they

are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once

again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is

certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as

Margaret descended the mound on her lover’s arm, she felt that she was

having her share.

To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and

Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage

rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking

her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call

at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss—odours the more

disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in

Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne

glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody.

“She’s overtired,” Margaret whispered.

“She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t do. I can’t have her in

my garden in this state.”

“Is she—” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.” Now that she was going to

marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risqué

conversations now.

Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the

twilight like a puff-ball.

“Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,” he said sharply.

Jacky replied: “If it isn’t Hen!”

“Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble,” apologized Margaret. “Il est

tout à fait différent.”

“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly.

Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I can’t congratulate you on your

protégés,” he remarked.

“Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?”

“Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts.

Jacky pointed with her cake. “You’re a nice boy, you are.” She yawned.

“There now, I love you.”

“Henry, I am awfully sorry.”

“And pray why?” he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared

he was ill. He seemed more scandalized than the facts demanded.

“To have brought this down on you.”

“Pray don’t apologize.”

The voice continued.

“Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret innocently. “Has she ever

seen you before?”

“Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen Hen? He’s serving you

like me, my dear. These boys! You wait—Still we love ’em.”

“Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked.

Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know what it is all about,”

she said. “Let’s come in.”

But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his

whole life crumbling. “Don’t you indeed?” he said bitingly. “I do.

Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your plan.”

“This is Helen’s plan, not mine.”

“I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I

am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right—it was

necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man’s past. I have the honour

to release you from your engagement.”

Still she could not understand. She knew of life’s seamy side as a

theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were

necessary—words unequivocal, undenied.

“So that—” burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself

from saying more.

“So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the

hall.

“We were saying—Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my

point being—” Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help

him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene.

“No, let me do that,” said Henry, following.

“Thanks so much! You see—he has forgiven me!”

The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s much to forgive.”

He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids,

courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the

branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and

patronizing their future hostess, the guests were home away.

Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been your mistress?”

“You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied.

“When, please?”

“Why?”

“When, please?”

“Ten years ago.”

She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy: it was Mrs.

Wilcox’s.