“Unk,” Anelida said rather desperately, “you can’t think, my poor blessing, what a muddle you’ve made.”
“A muddle?” He looked plaintively at her and she knew she was in for trouble. “What do you mean? I accept an invitation, most graciously extended by a charming woman. Pray where is the muddle?” She didn’t answer and he said,
“There are certain matters, of course, to be considered. I do not, for instance, know what clothes are proper, nowadays, for cocktail parties. In my day one would have worn…”
“It’s not a matter of clothes.”
“No? In any case, you shall instruct me.”
“I’ve already told Richard I can’t go to the party.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Of course we can go,” Octavius said. “What are you thinking of?”
“It’s so hard to explain, Unky. It’s just that — well, it’s partly because of me being in the theatre only so very much at the bottom of the ladder — less than the dust, you know, beneath Miss B.’s chariot wheels. I’d be like a corporal in the officers’ mess.”
“That,” said Octavius, reddening with displeasure, “seems to me to be a false analogy, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Nelly. And, my dear, when one quotes it is pleasant to borrow from reputable sources. The Indian Love Lyrics, in my undergraduate days, were the scourge of the drawing-rooms.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It would be extremely uncivil to refuse so kind an invitation,” Octavius said, looking more and more like a spoilt and frustrated child. “I want to accept it. What is the matter with you, Anelida?”
“The truth is,” Anelida said rather desperately, “I don’t quite know where I am with Richard Dakers.”
Octavius stared at her and experienced a moment of truth. “Now that I consider it,” he said huffily, “I realize that Dakers is paying his addresses to you. I wonder that it hasn’t occurred to me before. Have you taken against him?”
To her dismay Anelida found herself on the brink of tears. “No!” she cried. “No! Nothing like that — really, I mean — I mean I just don’t know…” She looked helplessly at Octavius. He was, she knew, hovering on the edge of one of his rare fits of temper. His vanity had been tickled by Miss Bellamy. He had almost strutted and preened before her. Anelida, who loved him very much, could have shaken him.
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not worth another thought. But I’m sorry, darling, if you’re put out over your lovely party.”
“I am put out,” Octavius said crossly. “I want to go.”
“And you shall go. I’ll do your tie and make you look beautiful.”
“My dear,” Octavius said, “it is you who would have looked beautiful. It would have been a great pleasure to take you. I should have been proud.”
“Oh hell!” said Anelida. She rushed at him and gave him an exasperated hug. He was much puzzled and hit her gently several times on the shoulder blades.
The shop door opened.
“Here,” Octavius said over the top of Anelida’s head, “is Dakers.”
Coming from the sunshine into the dark shop, Richard had been given a confused impression of Anelida collaring Octavius in a high tackle. He waited for her to emerge, which she did after some fumbling with her uncle’s handkerchief.
Octavius said, “If you’ll excuse me, Nell. Really, one must get on with one’s job.” He nodded to Richard and limped away into his back room.
Richard was careful not to look at Anelida. “I came,” he said, “first to apologize.”
“Not at all. I expect I behaved badly.”
“And to say how very glad I am. Mary told me you had decided for the party.”
“It was terribly kind of her to come. Unk was bewitched.”
“We are being polite to each other, aren’t we?”
“Better than flying into rages.”
“May I call for you?”
“There’s no need. Really. You’ll be busy with the party. Unk will be proud to escort me. He said so.”
“So he well might.” Richard now looked directly at Anelida. “You’ve been crying,” he said, “and your face is dirty. Like a little girl’s. Smudged.”
“All right. All right. I’m going to tidy it up.”
“Shall I?”
“No.”
“How old are you, Anelida?”
“Nineteen. Why?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“You’ve done very well,” Anelida said politely, “for your age. Famous dramatist.”
“Playwright.”
“I think with the new one you may allow yourself to be a dramatist.”
“My God, you’ve got a cheek,” he said thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Mary’s reading it. Now.”
“Was she pleased about it?”
“For the wrong reason. She thinks I wrote it for her.”
“But — how could she? Still, she’ll soon find out.”
“As I mentioned before, you don’t really know much as yet about theatre people.”
Anelida said, to her own astonishment, “But I do know I can act.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Of course you do. You’re a good actress.”
“You haven’t seen me.”
“That’s what you think.”
“Richard!”
“At least I’ve surprised you into calling me by my name.”
“But when did you see me?”
“It slipped out. It’s part of a deep-laid plan. You’ll find out.”
“When?”
“At the party. I’m off, now. Au revoir, dear Anelida.”
When he had gone, Anelida sat perfectly still for quite a long time. She was bewildered, undecided and piercingly happy.
Richard, however, returned to the house with his mind made up. He went straight to Charles Templeton’s study. He found Charles and Maurice Warrender there, rather solemn, over a decanter of sherry. When he came in they both looked self-conscious.
“We were just talking about you,” Charles said. “Have whatever it is you do have at this hour, Dicky. Lager?”
“Please. I’ll get it. Should I make myself scarce so that you can go on talking about me?”
“No, no.”
“We’d finished,” Warrender said, “I imagine. Hadn’t we, Charles?”
“I suppose we had.”
Richard poured out his lager. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I sidled in with the idea of boring you with a few observations under that very heading.”
Warrender muttered something about taking himself off. “Not unless you have to, Maurice,” Richard said. “It arises, in a way, out of what you said this morning.” He sat down and stared at his beer mug. “This is going to be difficult,” he said.
They waited, Warrender looking owlish, Charles, as always, politely attentive.
“I suppose it’s a question of divided allegiances,” Richard said at last. “Partly that, anyway.” He went on, trying to put what he wanted to say as objectively as might be. He knew that he was floundering and almost at once began to regret his first impulse.
Charles kept turning his elderly freckled hand and looking at it. Warrender sipped his sherry and shot an occasional, almost furtive, glance at Richard.
Presently Charles said, “Couldn’t we come to the point?”
“I wish I could,” Richard rejoined. “I’m making a mess of this, I know.”
“May I have a go at it? Is this what you’re trying to tell us? You think you can write a different kind of play from the sort of thing that suits Mary. You have, in fact, written one. You think it’s the best thing you’ve done, but you’re afraid Mary won’t take kindly to the idea of your making a break. You’ve shown it to her and she’s reading it now. You’re afraid that she’ll take it for granted that you see her in the lead. Right, so far?”