“Yes, you ought to read it, Lord Saxenden,” said Dinny; “and I’ll send you another book that bears on the same subject.”
Lord Saxenden glared.
“Charming of you both,” he said. “Is that strawberry jam?” and he reached for it.
“Miss Cherrell,” said Hallorsen, in a low voice, “I’d like to have you go through my book and mark the passages you think are prejudicial to your brother. I wrote that book when I had a pretty sore head.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t see what good that would do now.”
“So I could get them cut out, if you wish, for the second edition.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Dinny, icily, “but the harm is done, Professor.”
Hallorsen said, still lower: “I’m just terribly sorry to have hurt you.”
A sensation, perhaps only to be summed up in the words: ‘You are—are you!’ flushed Dinny from top to toe with anger, triumph, calculation, humour.
“It’s my brother you’ve hurt.”
“Maybe that could be mended if we could get together about it.”
“I wonder.” And Dinny rose.
Hallorsen stood up too, and bowed as she passed.
‘Terribly polite,’ she thought.
She spent her morning with the diary in a part of the garden so sunk within yew hedges that it formed a perfect refuge. The sun was warm there, and the humming of the bees over zinnias, pentstemons, hollyhocks, asters, Michaelmas daisies, was very soothing. In that so sheltered garden the dislike of casting Hubert’s intimate feelings to the world’s opinion came on her again. Not that the diary whined; but it revealed the hurts of mind and body with the sharpness of a record meant for no eye but the recorder’s. The sound of shots kept floating to her; and presently, leaning her elbows on the top of the yew hedge, she looked out over the fields towards where they were shooting.
A voice said:
“There you are!”
Her aunt, in a straw hat so broad that it covered her to the very edges of her shoulders, was standing below with two gardeners behind her.
“I’m coming round to you, Dinny; Boswell, you and Johnson can go now. We’ll look at the Portulaca this afternoon.” And she gazed up from under the tilted and enormous halo of her hat. “It’s Majorcan,” she said, “so shelterin’.”
“Boswell and Johnson, Auntie!”
“We had Boswell, and your uncle would look till we found Johnson. He makes them go about together. Do you believe in Doctor Johnson, Dinny?”
“I think he used the word ‘Sir’ too much.”
“Fleur’s got my gardenin’ scissors. What’s that, Dinny?”
“Hubert’s diary.”
“Depressin’?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been lookin’ at Professor Hallorsen—he wants takin’ in.”
“Begin with his cheek, Aunt Em.”
“I hope they’ll shoot some hares,” said Lady Mont; “hare soup is such a stand-by. Wilmet and Henrietta Bentworth have agreed to differ already.”
“What about?”
“Well, I couldn’t be bothered, but I think it was about the P.M., or was it Portulaca?—they differ about everything. Hen’s always been about Court, you know.”
“Is that fatal?”
“She’s a nice woman. I’m fond of Hen, but she does cluck. What are you doin’ with that diary?”
“I’m going to show it to Michael and ask his advice.”
“Don’t take it,” said Lady Mont; “he’s a dear boy, but don’t take it; he knows a lot of funny people—publishers and that.”
“That’s why I’m asking him.”
“Ask Fleur, she has a head. Have you got this zinnia at Condaford? D’you know, Dinny, I think Adrian’s goin’ potty.”
“Aunt Em!”
“He moons so; and I don’t believe there’s anywhere you could stick a pin into him. Of course I mustn’t say it to you, but I think he ought to have her.”
“So do I, Auntie.”
“Well, he won’t.”
“Or she won’t.”
“They neither of them will; so how it’s to be managed I don’t know. She’s forty.”
“How old is Uncle Adrian?”
“He’s the baby, all but Lionel. I’m fifty-nine,” said Lady Mont decisively. “I know I’m fifty-nine, and your father is sixty; your grandmother must have been in a great tear at that time, she kept on havin’ us. What do YOU think about this question of havin’ children?”
Dinny swallowed a bubble and said:
“Well, for married people, perhaps, in moderation.”
“Fleur’s going to have another in March; it’s a bad month—careless! When are you goin’ to get married, Dinny?”
“When my young affections are engaged, not before.”
“That’s very prudent. But not an American.”
Dinny flushed, smiled dangerously and said:
“Why on earth should I marry an American?”
“You never know,” said Lady Mont, twisting off a faded aster; “it depends on what there is about. When I married Lawrence, he was so about!”
“And still is, Aunt Em; wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be sharp!”
And Lady Mont seemed to go into a dream, so that her hat looked more enormous than ever.
“Talking of marriage, Aunt Em, I wish I knew of a girl for Hubert. He does so want distracting.”
“Your uncle,” said Lady Mont, “would say distract him with a dancer.”
“Perhaps Uncle Hilary knows one that he could highly recommend.”
“You’re naughty, Dinny. I always thought you were naughty. But let me think: there WAS a girl; no, she married.”
“Perhaps she’s divorced by now.”
“No. I think she’s divorcin’ him, but it takes time. Charmin’ little creature.”
“I’m sure. Do think again, Auntie.”
“These bees,” replied her aunt, “belong to Boswell. They’re Italian. Lawrence says they’re Fascists.”
“Black shirts and no after-thoughts. They certainly seem very active bees.”
“Yes; they fly a lot and sting you at once if you annoy them. Bees are nice to me.”
“You’ve got one on your hat, dear. Shall I take it off?”
“Stop!” said Lady Mont, tilting her hat back, with her mouth slightly open: “I’ve thought of one.”
“One what?”
“Jean Tasburgh, the daughter of our Rector here—very good family. No money, of course.”
“None at all?”
Lady Mont shook her head, and the hat wobbled. “No Jean never has money. She’s pretty. Rather like a leopardess.”
“Could I look her over, Auntie? I know fairly well what Hubert wouldn’t like.”
“I’ll ask her to dinner. They feed badly. We married a Tasburgh once. I think it was under James, so she’ll be a cousin, but terribly removed. There’s a son, too; in the Navy, all there, you know, and no moustache. I believe he’s stayin’ at the Rectory on furlong.”
“Furlough, Aunt Em.”
“I knew that word was wrong. Take that bee off my hat, there’s a dear.”
Dinny took the small bee off the large hat with her handkerchief, and put it to her ear.
“I still like to hear them buzz,” she said.
“I’ll ask him too,” answered her aunt; “his name’s Alan, a nice fellow.” And she looked at Dinny’s hair. “Medlar-coloured, I call it. I think he’s got prospects, but I don’t know what they are. Blown up in the war.”
“He came down again whole, I hope, Auntie?”
“Yes; they gave him something or other for it. He says it’s very stuffy in the Navy now. All angles, you know, and wheels, and smells. You must ask him.”
“About the girl, Aunt Em, how do you mean, a leopardess?”
“Well, she looks at you, and you expect to see a cub comin’ round the corner. Her mother’s dead. She runs the parish.”
“Would she run Hubert?”
“No; she’d run anybody who tried to run him.”
“That might do. Can I take a note for you to the Rectory?”
“I’ll send Boswell and Johnson,” Lady Mont looked at her wrist. “No, they’ll have gone to dinner. I always set my watch by them. We’ll go ourselves, Dinny; it’s only quarter of a mile. Does my hat matter?”
“On the contrary, dear.”