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Masses of people came in after dinner. They played darts, and shove-halfpenny, and the ancient, never-dying games of Love and Scandal in their most up-to-date forms-fewer words to the game, but the same call of the eye, the same lift of the eyebrow that beckoned a man or killed a reputation in Egypt, Greece or Rome two thousand years ago.
Sylvia couldn’t throw a dart straight to save her life. She regarded shove-halfpenny with horror. Why handle coppers if you hadn’t got to? She didn’t play the other games either. Algy took her to the window, lifted a bright green curtain, and let it fall again behind them.
“Look out here. Wait a minute till you can see. It’s worth while.”
They looked down as from a cliff on the dark tops of trees, all dark, all blurred, all moving in a wind which made no sound. More trees. Black houses away on the other side of the square, with bright lines showing here and there where a blind fell short or a curtain did not meet and just one window high up, bright and bare, with a black shadow coming and going in the room behind. And the river away to the left. Lights on it, moving lights, and a dark, slow stream, and the line of houses beyond, like an escarpment, blank and sheer.
To look out like this at night was to be soothed, consoled, assured of things immeasurably old and permanent-London-the river-trees and clouds-houses where people kindled fires from the same flame of hope which burned for ever and did not burn away. Things went on. You were up against it, you sweated blood, you won perhaps. And the game went on. Meanwhile this moment was good. Seen, Sylvia delighted and satisfied the eye. Unseen, she had the gift of silence. She stood with her shoulder touching his and leaned a little upon the sill, but did not speak. The good moment was shared. At least that is how it seemed to Algy. He heard the faintest of faint sighs, and thought it a tribute to the night.
“It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” he said.
“All those trees-and the river-like the country-” But her voice was flat.
A most horrible suspicion entered Algy’s mind.
“Don’t you like the country?”
“Oh, no.” Surprise enlived her tone. “Oh, no, I hate it-don’t you? Especially in the dark. Why, I lived in the country for years. It was dreadful. We hadn’t even got a car, and I do hate walking. I think I’d like to go back into the room if you don’t mind-I do rather hate the dark.”
Algy held the curtain and saw her pass beyond it. The light caught her gold hair and her gold dress as she went. But he did not follow her. He had been going to ask her about the Wessex-Gardners’ week-end party, but there would be time for that. He dropped the curtain, and turned to the river again. The moment had not been shared after all, but it was still good.
From behind him, in a sudden fierce whisper, came the voice of Cedric Blake.
“Muriel, it’s no use-I can’t stand it-you’ll have to!”
The whisper broke, and close by the curtain the red-haired girl laughed under her breath.
“You’re driving me mad!”
“I? You’re driving yourself.” Her voice was cool and scornful.
The curtain swayed inwards. Algy thought there was a snatched embrace. He thought he ought to say that he was there. He thought he had better not. Muriel’s voice came in a pricking undertone.
“If you do that again-”
“What will you do?”
She gave a sudden melting laugh.
“I really don’t know. Come and throw a dart.”
Algy heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to lift the curtain and emerge, when he heard his own name. Mary Carster said with tears in her voice,
“It’s perfectly horrible. How can they? I love Algy.”
“Bless you, my dear,” said Algy to himself. The refrain of a pleasanter song than Gilderoy hummed itself in his mind:
“Kind, kind and gentle is she,
Kind is my Mary.”
It was James who was with her, and the inarticulate James was moved to reply,
“So do I. Rotten! I say, darling, you can’t cry here. Do hold up.”
“I’m not crying.”
They moved away.
Algy stood frowning behind the curtain. As bad as that, was it? He heard Sylvia say sweetly and wearily,
“Oh, Mr. Brewster-how kind! I would love a chair. I don’t think I like sitting on the floor very much. You see, I don’t want to spoil my dress.”
“It’s a very beautiful dress,” said the earnest voice of Cyril Brewster. “It is almost worthy, if I may say so, of its wearer.”
Algy controlled an inward spasm. What a fatuous ass Brewster was. No, not fatuous-that wasn’t the right word at all. Simple, earnest, Victorian, bromidic-these were all much better adjectives.
“That’s very nice of you,” said Sylvia with evident pleasure.
This was the moment for Algy to come out. He meant to.
He was going to. But the temptation to hear more of Cyril in a complimentary mood was too much for him. With his hand on the curtain he dallied, and was rewarded.
“There is a very beautiful line in the Idylls of the King,” pursued Mr. Brewster-“an extremely beautiful line in which someone-a man I think-expresses himself to the effect that he that loves beauty should go beautifully. I am almost sure that it was a man, and that the lady’s name was Enid, in which case it was from the poem entitled Enid and Geraint. I cannot be entirely certain that my memory is accurate, as it is a good many years since I opened my Tennyson.”
“I have a dreadful memory too,” said Sylvia comfortably.
Algy blessed her, and would have given a good deal to see Cyril’s face. He ought to come out though, he ought to come out.
His hand went to the curtain and stayed there, because Sylvia was saying,
“Is there something wrong about Mr. Somers? I thought he was so nice.”
On any other night of any other month Algy would have taken that cue, bowed with hand on heart, and most convincingly have guaranteed his niceness. But not tonight, not with this damnable thing hanging over him. He stayed where he was, and heard Brewster, politely embarrassed.
“Oh, there’s nothing, Lady Colesborough-nothing at all. I really don’t know who could have given you such an impression.”
“Linda,” said Sylvia-“Mrs. Westgate, you know. I said how much I liked him and I thought I’d ask him to go to the Kensingtons’ dance next week, and she said better not, and Francis wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t say why-and I did like him so much.”
“Oh, but I assure you-”
Algy began to edge away towards the second window. He lost Cyril’s embarrassed defence, but he managed to emerge from behind the end curtain without being noticed.
Sylvia sat lightly on one of the chromium-plated chairs in her golden dress. Mr. Brewster occupied a jade-green cushion at her feet. Neither the colour nor the attitude became him. Darts were flying, a thought dangerously. There was a constant babel and babble of voices.
Algy found James Craster.
“Here,” he said, “I want to know how serious is this damned story-for me, I mean?”
James was large, and fair, and taciturn. He took thought, and produced reluctant words.
“Damned serious, I’m afraid.”
“People are believing it?”
“Not Mary and me.”
“Thanks. Other people though?”
James took thought again, again found words-more words than usual.
“Perhaps not today. All saying can’t believe such a thing.”
“Depends how that’s said.” Algy’s tone was grim.
James nodded, and saved a word.
“Tomorrow they’ll be spreading it. Saying ‘Suppose he did.’ Next day it’ll be, ‘Well, I always thought.’ That’s how it goes. Unless it’s stopped. Better stop it quick. Get Lushington to stop it. That’s my advice. Lies breed like flies.”
Algy was rather grey. James hit hard. Once you got him going he’d say what he thought. No beating about the bush. No tact. A good friend.