‘A present?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That reminds me we’ll have to get you one, I suppose. Anyway, that’s Molly’s job. This is just for you to see. You might even want to buy one for yourself.’
‘What is it?’
‘Guess.’
‘I don’t like to say the word in company.’
Jeavons extended his clasped fist towards Members, who shook his head angrily and turned away.
‘For your car,’ urged Jeavons.
‘I haven’t got a car,’ said Members.
He was thoroughly cross.
‘What do you really do with it?’ I asked.
‘Fix it on to the carburettor — then you use less petrol.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘Save money, of course. Are you a bloody millionaire, or what?’
Molly drew near our group as she crossed the room to refill one of the jugs of drink. She saw what Jeavons was doing and laid a hand on his arm.
‘You’ll never sell Nicholas one of those things,’ she said. ‘Nor Mr. Members, either, I’m sure. I don’t myself think you will sell it to anyone, darling.’
She moved on.
‘It is called an atomiser,’ said Jeavons, slowly, as if he were about to lecture troops upon some mechanical device. ‘It saves thirty-three and a third consumption per mile. I don’t expect it really saves you that for a moment, as a matter of fact. Why should it? Everybody would have one otherwise. It stands to reason. Still, you never know. It might do some good. Worth trying, I suppose.’
He spoke without great conviction, gazing for a time at the object in his open palm. Then he returned it to his coat pocket, fumbling about for some time, and at last bringing out a tattered packet of Gold Flake. He nicked up one of the cigarettes with his thumb, and offered it to each of us in turn.
‘Well,’ he said to me, ‘so you are going to get married.’
Members watched him with absolute horror. Jeavons, I was sure, was wholly unaware of the poor impression he was making. Members could stand it no longer.
‘I think I must go now,’ he said. ‘I have another party I have to look in on. It was kind of Lady Molly and yourself to ask me.’
‘Not at all,’ said Jeavons. ‘Glad to see you. Come again.’
He watched Members leave the room, as if he had never before seen anyone at all like him. His cigarette remained unlighted in his mouth.
‘Odd bloke,’ he said. ‘I feel shocking this afternoon. Had too much lunch. Red in the face. Distended stomach. Self-inflicted wounds, of course.’
We talked together for a minute or two. Then Jeavons wandered off among the guests. By then General and Mrs. Conyers had arrived. I went across the room to speak to them.
They had come up from the country the day before. After making the conventional remarks about my engagement, Mrs. Conyers was removed by Molly to be introduced to some new acquaintance of hers. I was left with the General. He seemed in excellent form, although at the same time giving the impression that he was restless about something: had a problem on his mind. All at once he took me by the arm. ‘I want a word with you, Nicholas,’ he said, in his deep, though always unexpectedly mild, voice. ‘Can’t we get out of this damned, milling crowd of people for a minute or two?’
The Jeavonses’guests habitually flowed into every room in the house, so that to retire to talk, for example in Molly’s bedroom, or Jeavons’s dressing-room, would be considered not at all unusual. We moved, in fact, a short way up the stairs into a kind of boudoir of Molly’s, constricted in space and likely to attract only people who wanted to enjoy a heart-to-heart talk together: a place chiefly given over to cats, two or three of which sat in an ill-humoured group at angles to one another, stirring with disapproval at this invasion of their privacy. I had no idea what the General could wish to say, even speculating for an instant as to whether he was about to offer some piece of advice — too confidential and esoteric to risk being overheard — regarding the conduct of married life. The period of engagement is one when you are at the mercy of all who wish to proffer counsel, and experience already prepared me for the worst. The truth turned out to be more surprising.
As soon as we were alone together, the General sat down on a chair in front of the writing-table, straightening out his leg painfully. It still seemed to be giving trouble. Alone with him, I became aware of that terrible separateness which difference of age imposes between individuals. Perhaps feeling something of this burden himself, he began at first to speak of his own advancing years.
‘I’m beginning to find all this standing about at Buck House a bit of a strain,’ he said. ‘Not so young as I was. Dropped my eyeglass not so long ago in one of the anterooms at St. James’s and had to get a fellow who was standing beside me to pick it up for me. Secretary from the Soviet Embassy. Perfectly civil. Just couldn’t get down that far myself. Afraid I’d drop my axe too, if I tried. Still, although I’m getting on in life, I’ve had a good run for my money. Seen some odd things at one time or another.’
He moved his leg again, and groaned a bit. I always had the impression that he liked talking about his appearances at Court.
‘I’m a great believer in people knowing the truth,’ he said. ‘Always have been.’
Without seeing at all clearly where this maxim would lead us, I agreed that truth was best.
‘Something happened the other day,’ said the General, ‘that struck me as interesting. Damned interesting. Got on my mind a bit, especially as I had been reading about that kind of thing. Odd coincidence, I mean. The fact is, you are the only fellow I can tell.’
By that time I began to feel even a little uneasy, having no idea at all what might be coming next.
‘When you came to tea with us not so long ago, I told you I had been reading about this business of psychoanalysis. Don’t tie myself down to Freud. Jung has got some interesting stuff too. No point in an amateur like myself being dogmatic about something he knows little or nothing about. Just make a fool of yourself. Don’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, a rather interesting illustration of some of the points I’d been reading about happened to come my way the other day. Care to hear about it?’
‘I should like to very much indeed.’
‘In connexion with this fellow you say you were at school with — this fellow Widmerpool — who wanted to marry my sister-in-law, Mildred.’
‘I hear the engagement is off.’
‘You knew that already?’
‘I was told so the other day.’
‘Common knowledge, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Know why it’s off?’
‘No. But I wasn’t altogether surprised.’
‘Nor was I, but it is an odd story. Not to be repeated, of course. Happened during their stay at Dogdene. Perhaps you’ve heard about that too?’
‘I knew they were going to Dogdene.’
‘Ever stopped there yourself?’
‘No. I’ve never met either of the Sleafords.’
‘I was once able to do Geoffrey Sleaford a good turn in South Africa,’ said the General. ‘He was A.D.C. to the Divisional Commander, and a more bone-headed fellow I never came across. Sleaford — or Fines, as he was then — had landed in a mess over some mislaid papers. I got him out of it. He is a stupid fellow, but always grateful. Made a point of trying out our poodle dogs at his shoots. Then Bertha knew Alice Sleaford as a girl. Went to the same dancing class. Bertha never much cared for her. Still, they get on all right now. Long and the short of it is that we stop at Dogdene from time to time. Uncomfortable place nowadays. Those parterres are very fine, of course. Alice Sleaford takes an interest in the garden. Wonderful fruit in the hot-houses. Then there is the Veronese. Geoffrey Sleaford has been advised to have it cleaned, but won’t hear of it. Young fellow called Smethyck told him. Smethyck saw our Van Troost and said it was certainly genuine. Nice things at Dogdene, some of them, but I could name half a dozen houses in England I’d rather stop at.’