As they started to go up, Brenda said, “You're not to leave me, please. I'm not going to know anybody,” and Beaver again saw himself as the dominant male.
They went straight through to the band and began dancing, not talking much except to greet other couples whom they knew. They danced for half an hour and then she said, “All right, I'll give you a rest. Only don't let me get left.”
She danced with Jock Grant-Menzies and two or three old friends and did not see Beaver again until she came on him alone in the bar. He had been there a long time, talking sometimes to the couples who came in and out, but always ending up alone. He was not enjoying the evening and he told himself rather resentfully that it was because of Brenda; if he had come there in a large party it would have been different.
Brenda saw he was out of temper and said, “Time for supper.”
It was early, and the tables were mostly empty except for earnest couples sitting alone. There was a large round table between the windows, with no one at it; they sat there.
“I don't propose to move for a long time, d'you mind?” She wanted to make him feel important again so she asked him about the other people in the room.
Presently their table filled up. These were Brenda's old friends, among whom she used to live when she came out and in the first two years of her marriage, before Tony's father died; men in the early thirties, married women of her own age, none of whom knew Beaver or liked him. It was by far the gayest table in the room. Brenda thought `How my poor young man must be hating this'; it did not occur to her that, from Beaver's point of view, these old friends of hers were quite the most desirable people at the party, and that he was delighted to be seen at their table. “Are you dying of it?” she whispered.
“No, indeed, never happier.”
“Well I am. Let's go and dance.”
But the band was taking a rest and there was no one in the ballroom except the earnest couples who had migrated there away from the crowd and were sitting huddled in solitude round the walls, lost in conversation. “Oh dear,” said Brenda, “now we're done. We can't back to the table … it almost looks as though we should have to go home.”
“It's not two.”
“That's late for me. Look here, don't you come. Stay and enjoy yourself.”
“Of course I'll come,” said Beaver.
It was a cold, clear night. Brenda shivered and he put his arm around her in the taxi. They did not say much.
“There already?”
They sat for a few seconds without moving. Then Brenda slipped free and Beaver got out.
“I'm afraid I can't ask you in for a drink. You see it isn't my house and I shouldn't know where to find anything.”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, goodnight, my dear. Thank you a thousand times for looking after me. I'm afraid I rather bitched your evening.”
“No, of course not,” said Beaver.
“Will you ring me in the morning … promise?” She touched her hand to her lips and then turned to the keyhole.
Beaver hesitated a minute whether he should go back to the party, but decided not to. He was near home, and everyone at Polly's would have settled down by now; so he gave his address in Sussex Gardens, and went up to bed.
Just as he was undressed he heard the telephone ringing downstairs. It was his telephone. He went down, two flights in the cold. It was Brenda's voice.
“Darling, I was just going to ring off. I thought you must have gone back to Polly's. Is the telephone not by your bed?”
“No, it's on the ground floor.”
“Oh dear, then it wasn't a very good idea to ring up, was it?”
“Oh, I don't know. What is it?”
“Just to say `goodnight.' “
“Oh, I see, well — goodnight.”
“And you'll ring me in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Early, before you've made any plans.”
“Yes.”
“Then goodnight, bless you.”
Beaver went up the two flights of stairs again, and got into bed.
“… going away in the middle of the party.”
“I can't tell you how innocent it was. He didn't even come in.”
“No one is going to know that.”
“And he was furious when I rang him up.”
“What does he think of you?”
“Simply can't make me out at all … terribly puzzled, and rather bored in bits.”
“Are you going to go on with it?”
“I shouldn't know.” The telephone rang. “Perhaps that's him.”
But it was not.
Brenda had come into Marjorie's room and they were having breakfast in bed. Marjorie was more than ever like an elder sister that morning. “But really, Brenda, he's such a dreary young man.”
“I know it all. He's second rate and a snob and, I should think, as cold as a fish, but I happen to have a fancy for him, that's all … besides I'm not sure he's altogether awful … he's got that odious mother whom he adores … and he's always been very poor. I don't think he's had a fair deal. I heard all about it last night. He got engaged once but they couldn't get married because of money and since then he's never had a proper affaire with anyone decent … he's got to be taught a whole lot of things. That's part of his attraction.”
“Oh dear, I see you're very serious.” The telephone rang.
“Perhaps that's him.”
But a familiar voice rang out from the instrument so that Brenda too could hear it, “Good morning, darling, what's the diet today?”
“Oh, Polly, what a good party last night.”
“Not so bad for the old girl was it? I say what about your sister and Mr. Beaver.”
“What about them?”
“How long has that been on?”
“There's nothing doing there, Polly.”
“Don't you tell me. They were well away last night. How's the boy managed it? That's what I want to know. He must have something we didn't know about …”
“So Polly's on to your story. She'll be telling everyone in London at this moment.”
“How I wish there was anything to tell. The cub hasn't even rung me up … Well, I'll leave him in peace. If he doesn't do anything about me, I'll go down to Hetton this afternoon. Perhaps that's him.” But it was only Allan from the Conservative Central Office, to say how sorry he had been not to get to the party the night before. “I hear Brenda disgraced herself,” he said.
“Goodness,” said Brenda. “People do think that young men are easily come by.” -
“I scarcely saw you at Polly's last night,” said Mrs. Beaver. “What became of you?”
“We went early. Brenda Last was tired.”
“She was looking lovely. I am so glad you've made friends with her. When are you going to see her again.”
“I said I'd ring up.”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Oh, mumsey, what's the use! I can't afford to start taking about women like Brenda Last. If I ring up she'll say, what are you doing, and I shall have to ask her to something, and it will be the same thing every day. I simply haven't the money.”
“I know, my son. It's very difficult for you … and you're wonderful about money. I ought to be grateful that I haven't a son always coming to me with debts. Still, it doesn't do to deny yourself everything you know: You're getting to be an old bachelor already at twenty-five. I could see Brenda liked you, that evening she came here.”