“Nothing, my dear. I think the sight of poor old Uncle ‘Cuffs’ has made her dwell on the future. Ever dwell on the future, Dinny? It’s a dismal period, after a certain age.”
He opened a door.
“My dear, here’s Dinny.”
Emily, Lady Mont, was standing in her panelled drawing-room flicking a feather brush over a bit of Famille Verte, with her parakeet perched on her shoulder. She lowered the brush, advanced with a far-away look in her eyes, said “Mind, Polly,” and kissed her niece. The parakeet transferred itself to Dinny’s shoulder and bent its head round enquiringly to look in her face.
“He’s such a dear,” said Lady Mont; “you won’t mind if he tweaks your ear? I’m so glad you came, Dinny; I’ve been so thinking of funerals. Do tell me your idea about the hereafter.”
“Is there one, Auntie?”
“Dinny! That’s so depressing.”
“Perhaps those who want one have it.”
“You’re like Michael. He’s so mental. Where did you pick Dinny up, Lawrence?”
“In the street.”
“That sounds improper. How is your father, Dinny? I hope he isn’t any the worse for that dreadful house at Porthminster. It did so smell of preserved mice.”
“We’re all very worried about Hubert, Aunt Em.”
“Ah! Hubert, yes. You know, I think he made a mistake to flog those men. Shootin’ them one can quite understand, but floggin’ is so physical and like the old Duke.”
“Don’t you feel inclined to flog carters when they lash overloaded horses up-hill, Auntie?”
“Yes, I do. Was that what they were doin’?”
“Practically, only worse. They used to twist the mules’ tails and stick their knives into them, and generally play hell with the poor brutes.”
“Did they? I’m so glad he flogged them; though I’ve never liked mules ever since we went up the Gemmi. Do you remember, Lawrence?”
Sir Lawrence nodded. On his face was the look, affectionate but quizzical, which Dinny always connected with Aunt Em.
“Why, Auntie?”
“They rolled on me; not they exactly, but the one I was ridin’. They tell me it’s the only time a mule has ever rolled on anybody—surefooted.”
“Dreadful taste, Auntie!”
“Yes; and most unpleasant—so internal. Do you think Hubert would like to come and shoot partridges at Lippinghall next week?’
“I don’t think you could get Hubert to go anywhere just now. He’s got a terrible hump. But if you have a cubby-hole left for me, could I come?”
“Of course. There’ll be plenty of room. Let’s see: just Charlie Muskham and his new wife, Mr. Bentworth and Hen, Michael and Fleur, and Diana Ferse, and perhaps Adrian because he doesn’t shoot, and your Aunt Wilmet. Oh! ah! And Lord Saxenden.”
“What!” cried Dinny.
“Why? Isn’t he respectable?”
“But, Auntie—that’s perfect! He’s my objective.”
“What a dreadful word; I never heard it called that before. Besides, there’s a Lady Saxenden, on her back somewhere.”
“No, no, Aunt Em. I want to get at him about Hubert. Father says he’s the nod.”
“Dinny, you and Michael use the oddest expressions. What nod?”
Sir Lawrence broke the petrified silence he usually observed in the presence of his wife.
“Dinny means, my dear, that Saxenden is a big noise behind the scenes in military matters.”
“What is he like, Uncle Lawrence?”
“Snubby? I’ve known him many years—quite a lad.”
“This is very agitatin’,” said Lady Mont, resuming the parakeet.
“Dear Auntie, I’m quite safe.”
“But is Lord—er—Snubby? I’ve always tried to keep Lippin’hall respectable. I’m very doubtful about Adrian as it is, but”—she placed the parakeet on the mantelpiece—“he’s my favourite brother. For a favourite brother one does things.”
“One does,” said Dinny.
“That’ll be all right, Em,” put in Sir Lawrence. “I’ll watch over Dinny and Diana, and you can watch over Adrian and Snubby.”
“Your uncle gets more frivolous every year, Dinny; he tells me the most dreadful stories.” She stood still alongside Sir Lawrence and he put his hand through her arm.
Dinny thought: ‘The Red King and the White Queen.’
“Well, good-bye, Dinny,” said her Aunt, suddenly; “I have to go to bed. My Swedish masseuse is takin’ me off three times a week. I really am reducin’.” Her eyes roved over Dinny: “I wonder if she could put you on a bit!”
“I’m fatter than I look, Auntie.”
“So am I—it’s distressin’. If your uncle wasn’t a hop-pole I shouldn’t mind so much.” She inclined her cheek, and Dinny gave it a smacking kiss.
“What a nice kiss!” said Lady Mont. “I haven’t had a kiss like that for years. People do peck so! Come, Polly!” and, with the parakeet upon her shoulder, she swayed away.
“Aunt Em looks awfully well.”
“She is, my dear. It’s her mania—getting stout; she fights it tooth and nail. We live on the most variegated cookery. It’s better at Lippinghall, because Augustine leads us by the nose, and she’s as French as she was thirty-five years ago when we brought her back from our honeymoon. Cooks like a bird, still. Fortunately nothing makes me fat.”
“Aunt Em isn’t fat.”
“M-no.”
“And she carries herself beautifully. We don’t carry ourselves like that.”
“Carriage went out with Edward,” said Sir Lawrence; “it was succeeded by the lope. All you young women lope as if you were about to spring on to something and make a get-away. I’ve been trying to foresee what will come next. Logically it should be the bound, but it may quite well revert and be the languish.”
“What sort of man is Lord Saxenden, really, Uncle Lawrence?”
“One of those who won the war by never having his opinion taken. You know the sort of thing: ‘Went down for week-end to Cooquers. The Capers were there, and Gwen Blandish; she was in force and had much to say about the Polish front. I had more. Talked with Capers; he thinks the Boches have had enough. I disagreed with him; he is very down on Lord T. Arthur Prose came over on Sunday; he estimates that the Russians now have two million rifles but no bullets. The war, he says, will be over by January. He is appalled by our losses. If he only knew what I know! Lady Thripp was there with her son, who has lost his left foot. She is most engaging; promised to go and see her hospital and tell her how to run it. Very pleasant dinner on Sunday—everybody in great form; we played at comfits. Alick came in after; he says we lost forty thousand men in the last attack, but the French lost more. I expressed the opinion that it was very serious. No one took it.’”
Dinny laughed. “Were there such people?”
“Were there not, my dear! Most valuable fellows; what we should have done without them—the way they kept their ends up and their courage and their conversation—the thing had to be seen to be believed. And almost all of them won the war. Saxenden was especially responsible. He had an active job all the time.”
“What job?”
“Being in the know. He was probably more in the know than anybody else on earth, judging by what he says. Remarkable constitution, too, and lets you see it: great yachtsman.”
“I shall look forward to him.”
“Snubby,” sighed her uncle, “is one of those persons at whom it is better to look back. Would you like to stay the night, Dinny, or are you going home?”
“Oh, I must go back to-night. My train’s at eight from Paddington.”
“In that case I’ll lope you across the Park, give you a snack at Paddington, and put you into the train.”
“Oh! don’t bother about me, Uncle Lawrence.”
“Let you cross the Park without me, and miss the chance of being arrested for walking with a young female! Never! We might even sit, and try our luck. You’re just the type that gets the aged into trouble. There’s something Botticellian about you, Dinny. Come along.”
It was seven o’clock of the September evening when they debouched into Hyde Park, and, passing under the plane trees, walked on its withered grass.