``That's all right. I've persuaded him to stay on till tomorrow.''
``If you're sure you don't ...''
``Splendid. I am glad. It's beastly going up at this time, particularly by that train.''
When John came in he said, ``I thought Mr. Beaver was going.''
``Not till tomorrow.''
``Oh.''
After dinner Tony sat and read the papers. Brenda and Beaver were on the sofa playing games together. They did a cross word. Beaver said, ``I've thought of something'' and Brenda asked him questions to find what it was. He was thinking of the rum Peppermint drank. John had told him the story at tea. Brenda guessed it quite soon. Then they played `Analogies' about their friends and finally about each other.
They said goodbye that night because Beaver was catching the 9.10.
Do let me know when you come to London.''
``I may be up this week.''
Next morning Beaver tipped both butler and footman ten shillings each. Tony, still feeling rather guilty in spite of Brenda's heroic coping, came down to breakfast to see his guest off. Afterwards he went back to Guinevere.
``Well, that's the last of him. You were superb, darling. I'm sure he's gone back thinking that you're mad about him.''
``Oh, he wasn't too awful.''
``No. I must say he took a very intelligent interest when we went round the house.''
Mrs. Beaver was eating her yoghort when Beaver reached home. ``Who was there?''
``No one.''
``No one? My poor boy.''
``They weren't expecting me. It was awful at first but got better. They were just as you said. She's very charming. He scarcely spoke.''
``I wish I saw her sometimes.''
``She talked of taking a flat in London.''
``Did she?'' The conversation of stables and garages was an important part of Mrs. Beaver's business. ``What does she want?''
``Something quite simple. Two rooms and a bath. But it's all quite vague. She hasn't said anything to Tony yet.''
``I'm sure I shall be able to find her something.''
Two
If Brenda had to go to London for a day's shopping, hair-cutting, or bone-setting (a recreation she particularly enjoyed), she went on Wednesday, because the tickets on that day were half the usual price. She left at eight in the morning and got home soon after ten at night. She travelled third class and the carriages were often full, because other wives on the line took advantage of the cheap fare. She usually spent the day with her younger sister Marjorie who was married to the prospective conservative candidate for a South London constituency of strong Labour sympathies. She was more solid than Brenda. The newspapers used always to refer to them as `the lovely Rex sisters.' Marjorie and Allan were hard up and smart; they could not afford a baby; they lived in a little house in the neighbourhood of Portman Square, very convenient for Paddington Station. They had a Pekingese dog named Djinn.
Brenda had come on impulse, leaving the butler to ring up and tell Marjorie of her arrival. She emerged from the train, after two hours and a quarter in a carriage crowded five a side, looking as fresh and fragile as if she had that moment left a circle of masseuses, chiropodists, manicurists and coiffeuses in an hotel suite. It was an aptitude she had, never to look half finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often was on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she went completely to pieces quite suddenly and became a waif; then she would sit over the fire with a cup of bread and milk, hardly alive, until Tony took her up to bed.
Marjorie had her hat on and was sitting at her writing table puzzling over her cheque book and a sheaf of bills.
``Darling, what does the country do to you? You look like a thousand pounds. Where did you get that suit?''
``I don't know. Some shop.''
``What's the news at Hetton?''
``All the same. Tony madly feudal. John Andrew cursing like a stable boy.''
``And you?''
``Me? Oh, I'm all right.''
``Who's been to stay?''
``No one. We had a friend of Tony's called Mr. Beaver last week-end.''
``John Beaver? ... How very odd. ``I shouldn't have thought he was at all Tony's tea.''
``He wasn't ... What's he like?''
``I hardly know him. I see him at Margot's sometimes. He's a great one for going everywhere.''
``I thought he was rather pathetic.''
``Oh, he's pathetic all right. D'you fancy him?''
``Heavens, no.''
They took Djinn for a walk in the Park. He was a very unrepaying dog who never looked about him and had to be dragged along by his harness; they took him to Watt's Physical Energy; when loosed he stood perfectly still, gazing moodily at the asphalt until they turned towards home; only once did he show any sign of emotion, when he snapped at a small child who attempted to stroke him; later he got lost and was found a few yards away, sitting under a chair and staring at a shred of waste paper. He was quite colourless with pink nose and lips and pink circles of bald flesh round his eyes. ``I don't believe he has a spark of human feeling,'' said Marjorie.
They talked about Mr. Cruttwell, their bone setter, and Marjorie's new treatment. ``He's never done that to me,'' said Brenda enviously; presently, ``What do you suppose is Mr. Beaver's sex-life?''
I shouldn't know. Pretty dim I imagine ... You do fancy him?''
``Oh well,'' said Brenda, ``I don't see such a lot of young men ...''
They left the dog at home and did some shopping--towels for the nursery, pickled peaches, a clock for one of the lodge-keepers who was celebrating his sixtieth year of service at Hetton, a pot of Morecambe Bay shrimps as a surprise for Tony; they made an appointment with Mr. Cruttwell for that afternoon. They talked about Polly Cockpurse's party. ``Do come up for it. It's certain to be amusing.''
I might ... if I can find someone to take me. Tony doesn't like her ... I can't go to parties alone at my age.'' They went out to luncheon, to a new restaurant in Albemarle Street which a friend of theirs named Daisy had recently opened. ``You're in luck,'' said Marjorie, as soon as they got inside the door, ``there's your Mr. Beaver's mother.''
She was entertaining a party of eight at a large round table in the centre of the room; she was being paid to do so by Daisy, whose restaurant was not doing all she expected of it--that is to say the luncheon was free and Mrs. Beaver was getting the order, should the restaurant still be open, for its spring redecorations. It was, transparently, a made-up party, the guests being chosen for no mutual bond--least of all affection for Mrs. Beaver or for each other--except that their names were in current use--an accessible but not wholly renegade Duke, an unmarried girl of experience, a dancer and a novelist and a scene designer, a shamefaced junior minister who had not realized what he was in for until too late, and Lady Cockpurse; ``God, what a party,'' said Marjorie, waving brightly to them all.
``You're both coming to my party, darlings?'' Polly Cockpurse's strident tones rang across the restaurant. ``Only don't tell anyone about it. It's just a very small, secret party. The house will only hold a few people--just old friends.''
``It would be wonderful to see what Polly's real old friends were like,'' said Marjorie. ``She hasn't known anyone more than five years.''
``I wish Tony could see her point.''
(Although Polly's fortune was derived from men, her popularity was chiefly among women, who admired her clothes and bought them from her second hand at bargain prices; her first steps to eminence had been in circles so obscure that they had made her no enemies in the world to which she aspired; some time ago she had married a good-natured Earl, whom nobody else happened to want at the time, since then she had scaled all but the highest peaks of every social mountain.)