“There is a good electric service from Waterloo,” she had written in her letter to him, and the sentence echoed in his mind with fatuous profundity all the time he was fixing his collar and tie in front of the bedroom mirror. It was strange to be visiting a person whom you had not seen for twenty-three years. It had been on impulse that he had written to her, and he was not sure, even now, that the impulse had been wise. She had married, of course, a second time—that was something. She had even a nineteen- year-old daughter. And, if one chanced to think of it, she had the vote—that vote for which in the past she had clamoured so much. She would be forty-eight—his own age. Her letter had really told him very little except that her name was now Newburn, that she would be delighted to see him, and that there was that good electric service from Waterloo.
When he arrived at Surbiton station an hour later he declined a cab and enquired the way from a policeman. The walk through placid suburban roads gave him a chance to meditate, to savour in full the rich unusualness of the situation. He lit a cigarette, stopped a moment to watch some boys playing with a dog, kicked a few pieces of orange-peel into the gutter with an automatic instinct for tidiness; it was past seven before he found the house. It looked smaller than he had expected (for, after all, hadn’t she inherited the bulk of old Jergwin’s fortune?); just a detached suburban villa with sham gables and a pretentious curved pathway between the garden-gate and the porch. The maid who opened the door to his ring took his hat and coat and showed him into a drawing-room tastefully if rather depressingly furnished. He stood with his back to the fire-grate and continued to wonder what she would look like.
She came in with her daughter. She was rather thin and pale and eager, and the daughter was a large-limbed athletic-looking girl who moved about the room as if it were a hockey-pitch.
“Isn’t it romantic, Ainsley, for you to have come back after all these years?”
He found himself shaking hands and being presented to the girl. “I suppose it is,” he answered, smiling. Rather to his astonishment he felt perfectly calm. He began to chatter pointlessly about the journey. “Found nay way quite easily—as you said, the service is very good. Didn’t think I’d be here half so quickly. You must be pretty far out of town, though—twenty miles, I should guess.”
“Twelve,” the girl corrected.
They began to discuss Surbiton. Then the maid brought in complicated and rather sugary cocktails. They continued to discuss Surbiton. By that time he was beginning to anticipate the arrival of Mr. Newburn with almost passionate eagerness, and was rather surprised when they adjourned to the dining-room without waiting for the gentleman. “Is Mr. Newburn away?” he asked, noticing that places were only laid for three. The girl answered, with outright simplicity: “Father died two years ago.”
Well, that was that, and there was nothing for it but to look sympathetic and change the subject. So, to avoid at all costs the resumption of the Surbiton discussion, he began to talk about Paris, Vienna, and other cities he had lived in during recent years. The girl said: “Mother told me you were in Russia during the Revolution. Do tell us about it!” He smiled and answered: “Well, ell, you know, there was a revolution and a lot of shooting and trouble of most kinds—I don’t know that I can remember much more.” She then said: “I suppose you saw Lenin and Trotsky?”—and he replied: “No, never—and neither of them. I’m rather a fraud, don’t you think?”
Then Philippa chatted about various causes and enterprises she was connected with; they ranged from a hospital for crippled children and a birth- control clinic to Esperanto and Dalcroze eurhythmics. He listened tolerantly, but shook his head when she offered to show him authentic photographs of slum children suffering from rickets. “I’ll willingly subscribe to them,” he said, “but I never care to have my feelings harrowed after a good dinner.” The girl choked with laughter. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “I think they’re horrible photographs, and mother will show them to everybody.” Philippa replied: “I show them because they are so horrible—people ought to realise the horrible things that go on in the world.” He felt suddenly sorry for her then, and said: “It’s a splendid cause, I’m sure, and I didn’t mean to make fun. You will let me send you a cheque, won’t you?”
But he soon perceived that his compassion had been unnecessary. She was tough; she was thick-skinned; she was obviously used to all kinds of gibes. When she told him that it was her habit to stand at street-corners lecturing about birth-control, he felt that he need no longer be afraid of hurting her feelings. He was more sorry, then, for the girl; she was such an ordinary, straightforward, averagely decent girl.
They took coffee in the drawing-room, and when they were comfortably smoking, Philippa suddenly said: “My husband isn’t really dead—my daughter had to tell you that because the maid was there and that is what we tell her. The truth is, he left me.”
“Really?”
Then she launched into a detailed account of the catastrophe of her second marriage. The man had been a labour organiser, and he had run off with a girl secretary. He had also speculated with his wife’s money and lost most of it. It was all a rather pathetic story, taking so long to tell that by the time it was nearly over he was having to look at his watch and make hints about a return train. Then followed the usual conventionalities. It had been a most charming evening, he assured her—delightful to have seen her again. She urged him to stay the night, but he said he thought he wouldn’t—all his things at his hotel, and so on. She said she hoped they would meet again soon. She told him that she ran a little informal literary circle that met on alternate Wednesdays in her drawing-room. “We read each other papers, you know—not necessarily on literary subjects—sometimes we get strangers to talk to us—Mr. Wimpole, for instance, gave us a most fascinating chat about old English silver last week. I was wondering, you see, whether you would care to tell us a few of your experiences in Russia; if you would, I am sure—”
But he replied, smiling and shaking his head: “My dear Philippa, none of my Russian experiences were nearly so dreadful as the one you are suggesting.” The girl again laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse—that sort of thing really isn’t in my line at all.”
It was raining and the girl went to the telephone to ring for a taxi. While she was away, Philippa contrived a word or two tęte-ŕ- tęte; she said: “You know, Ainsley, I do hope you’ll soon he conning again and then you must arrange to stay at least for a week-end. I dare-say ’you’ve found it rather odd, meeting me and my daughter together like this—there have been restraints, I know—lots of things I haven’t cared to tell you in front of her. And perhaps you too—what have you been doing, really, since I saw you last? We must meet again soon and tell each other everything.” Hearing the girl approaching, she added: “Anyway, now that you’re intending to make a home in England, we shall simply insist on getting to know you.”