Delia flushed, and gave an uncertain laugh. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean—I was only wondering.”
Abigail Dearham, a very pretty girl, with a mop of chestnut curls, and wide-open grey eyes, looked at her with the interest she accorded to everyone who came in her way. “Have you got a baby?” she asked.
“Yes, a little girl. But I really wasn't worrying about her. That is to say—”
“Do you look after her yourself? Is it an awful sweat?”
“Oh, no! Of course, it does tie one, but I love doing it.”
“You ought to get out more, dear,” said Mrs. Haswell.
“I expect it's fun, having a baby,” said Abby, giving the matter her serious consideration. “I shouldn't like to be tied down, though.”
“Yes, you would. You don't mind being tied down by your own Inky,” said Charles.
“That's different. I have set hours with him.”
“Not much you don't!” said Charles rudely. “You're always being kept on after hours because he's in the middle of a chapter, or wants you to manage one of his beastly parties!”
His mother, not betraying the fact that she had received sudden enlightenment, said in an easy tone: “Abby is Geoffrey Silloth's secretary, Delia. So interesting!”
“No, by Jove, are you really?” said Kenelm. “What's he like?”
“Oh, quite a toot!” replied Abby cheerfully. “He's gone off to Antibes for a fortnight, which is why I've got a holiday.”
This description of a distinguished man of letters was received with equanimity by Mrs. Haswell, accustomed to the phraseology of youth; with complete understanding by Charles, and the Lindales; and with patent nausea by Gavin Plenmeller, who asked in silken accents to have the term explained to him.
“Ah, here come Mrs. Cliburn and the Squire!” said Mrs. Haswell, rising to greet these timely arrivals. “Edith, how nice! But, Bernard, isn't Rosamund coming?”
The Squire, a squarely built man who looked older than his sixty years, shook hands, saying: “One of her heads. She told me to make her apologies, and say she'd be along to tea, if she feels up to it. I don't think there's much hope of it, but I left the car for her, just in case.”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry! You know Mrs. Lindale, don't you? And her husband, of course.”
“Yes, indeed. Glad to see you, Mrs. Lindale! And you, Lindale.” His deep-set eyes travelled to the tennis-courts. “Warrenby not here? Good opportunity for the rest of us to talk over this business about the River Board. Where's Henry, Adelaide?”
“Well, I expect he'll be back before you leave.” replied Mrs. Haswell. “Though if it's about this tiresome River Board affair, I do wish— However, it's not my business, so you'd better talk to Henry. I must say, it does seem a lot of fuss about very little.”
“One does so want to avoid unpleasantness,” said Mrs. Cliburn. “Of course, it isn't anything to do with us either, but Tony and I can't help feeling that it would be a shame to appoint anyone but Mr. Drybeck to act for this new River Board. I mean, he always did when it was the Catchment Board, didn't he? And he'd be bound to feel very badly about it, particularly if Mr. Warrenby was appointed instead of him. But I oughtn't to give my opinion,” she added hastily.
“Well, well, it isn't such a great matter, after all!” said the Squire. “We must see what Haswell thinks.”
“Dad won't support Warrenby, sir,” interpolated Charles. “I know that. For one thing, he's dead against hurting poor old Drybeck's feelings.”
“Charles!” said his mother, with a warning glance towards the tennis-court.
“All right, Mum: they can't hear us. And, for another, he's just about had Warrenby, muscling into every damned thing here!”
“Nor is he alone in his surfeit,” said Gavin. “I too shall oppose Warrenby. I feel sure Walter would have: he always opposed people.”
The Squire threw him a frowning look, but said nothing. Kenelm Lindale, lighting a cigarette, and carefully pressing the spent match into the ground, said: “Well, I don't want to hurt Drybeck's feelings either, but, to tell you the truth, I don't really know much about this River Board.”
“And you a riparian owner!” said Charles, shocked. “There used to be one Catchment Board for the Rushy, here, and another one for the Crail, which for your better information is—”
“All right!” said Kenelm, grinning at him. “I know where the Crail runs! I also know that two old Catchment Boards have become one new River Board. What I meant was, what about the Crail half of the Board? Haven't they got a candidate for the solicitor's job?”
“The man who used to look after their interests has retired,” said the Squire shortly. “You'd better read the correspondence. I'll show it to you, if you like to— No, now I come to think of it, I sent it on to you, Gavin. I wish you'd let me have it back.”
He turned away, and began to talk to his hostess. Another game was soon arranged, he and Mrs. Cliburn taking the places of Charles and Abigail, who went off with Gavin and Mrs. Haswell to engage in a light-hearted game of Crazy Croquet, which Charles insisted was the only sort of croquet he understood.
Tea was served under the elm tree on the lawn to the east of the house, the tennis-players joining the party when their respective sets ended, and hailing with acclaim the discovery that Mrs. Haswell, always a perfect hostess, had provided iced coffee for their refreshment.
Mrs. Ainstable arrived at about half-past five, leaving her car in the drive, and walking through the rose-covered archway that led to the eastern lawn. Mrs. Haswell rose at once, and went to meet her; and she said, in her rather high-pitched inconsequent voice: “I do apologise! Don't say I'm too late to be given tea: I should burst into tears. Isn't it hot? How lovely the garden's looking! We've got greenfly.”
“My dear, you don't look fit to be out!” said Mrs. Haswell, taking her hand, and looking at her in a concerned way. “Are you sure you're all right?”
“Oh, yes! Just one of my wretched heads. Better now. Don't say anything about it: Bernard worries so about me!”
This was seen to be true. The Squire had come up to them, and was anxiously scanning his wife's face. “My dear, is this wise of you? I hoped you'd have a sleep.”
“I did have a sleep, Bernard, and it did me so much good that I couldn't bear to stay away from Adelaide's party. Now, don't fuss, darling, please!”
He shook his head, but said no more. Mrs. Haswell could not think it wonderful that he should be worried. Rosamund Ainstable, though more than ten years his junior, was a woman who, without having any organic disease, had never enjoyed good health. Her constitution was delicate; any exertion out of the way was apt to prostrate her; and she was the victim of sick headaches whose cause had consistently baffled her many medical advisers. She had ceased to try to discover it, saying, with a rueful laugh, that having worked her way expensively up Harley Street, she had neither the means nor the stamina to work her way down it. In the popular phrase, she lived on her nerves, which were ill-adapted to bear the strain. She had endured two world wars, dying a thousand vicarious deaths in the first, when she had known that every telegram delivered to her must contain the news that her husband had been killed in action; and losing her only child in the second. Her friends had prophesied that she would not recover from this blow; but she had recovered, exerting herself to support and to comfort the Squire, whose pride and hope were buried somewhere in the North African Desert. It might have been expected that he and she, with their heir dead, would have ceased to struggle to maintain an estate impoverished by the financial demands of one war, and brought almost to penury by those of a second, but, as the Squire's legal adviser, Thaddeus Drybeck, loftily pointed out to his acquaintance, Blood Told, and the Squire continued to plan and contrive as though he believed he would be succeeded by the son he had adored, and not by a nephew whom he scarcely knew, and did not much like.
Mrs. Haswell, installing her friend in a comfortable chair and supplying her with the tea for which she said she craved, was tactful not to betray her realisation that this was one of poor Rosamund's bad days. There was a glitter in those restless eyes, too high a colour in those thin cheeks, an artificial gaiety in the high-pitched voice, which she could not like, and hoped the Squire would not notice. Whether he did or not it was impossible to guess: by tradition and temperament he was a man who concealed his thoughts and his feelings.