“Next week.”
“Can I help?”
“If you can distemper walls.”
“Rather! I did all my bungalow in Ceylon, two or three times over.”
“We should have to work in the evenings, because of my job.”
“What about your boss? Is he decent?”
“Very, and in love with my sister. At least, I think so.”
“Oh!” said young Croom dubiously.
Clare smiled. He was so obviously thinking: ‘Could a man be that when he sees YOU every day?’
“When can I come first?”
“To-morrow evening, if you like. It’s 2, Melton Mews, off Malmesbury Square. I’ll get the stuff in the morning, and we’ll begin upstairs. Say six-thirty.”
“Splendid!”
“Only, Tony—no importunities. ‘Life is real, life is earnest.’”
Grinning ruefully, he put his hand on his heart.
“And you must go now. I’ll take you down and see if my Uncle’s come in.”
Young Croom stood up.
“What is happening about Ceylon?” he said, abruptly. “Are you being worried?”
Clare shrugged. “Nothing is happening so far.”
“That can’t possibly last. Have you thought things out?”
“Thinking won’t help me. It’s quite likely he’ll do nothing.”
“I can’t bear your being—” he stopped.
“Come along,” said Clare, and led the way downstairs.
“I don’t think I’ll try to see your Uncle,” said young Croom. “To-morrow at half-past six, then.” He raised her hand to his lips, and marched to the door. There he turned. She was standing with her head a little on one side, smiling. He went out, distracted.
A young man, suddenly awakened amid the doves of Cytherea, conscious for the first time of the mysterious magnetism which radiates from what the vulgar call ‘a grass widow,’ and withheld from her by scruples or convention, is to be pitied. He has not sought his fate. It comes on him by stealth, bereaving him ruthlessly of all other interest in life. It is an obsession replacing normal tastes with a rapturous aching. Maxims such as ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife,’ ‘Blessed are the pure in heart,’ become singularly academic. Young Croom had been brought up to the tinkling of the school belclass="underline" ‘Play the game!’ He now perceived its strange inadequacy. What WAS the game? Here was she, young and lovely, fleeing from a partner seventeen years older than herself, because he was a brute; she hadn’t said so, but of course he must be! Here was himself, desperately in love with her, and liked by her—not in the same way, but still as much as could be expected! And nothing to come of it but tea together! There was a kind of sacrilege in such waste.
Thus preoccupied he passed a man of middle height and alert bearing, whose rather cat-like eyes and thin lips were set into a brown face with the claws of many little wrinkles, and who turned to look after him with a slight contraction of the mouth which might have been a smile.
CHAPTER 7
After young Croom had gone Clare stood for a moment in the hall recollecting the last time she had gone out of that front door, in a fawn-coloured suit and a little brown hat, between rows of people saying: “Good luck!” and “Good-bye, darling!” and “Give my love to Paris!” Eighteen months ago, and so much in between! Her lip curled, and she went into her Uncle’s study.
“Oh! Uncle Lawrence, you ARE in! Tony Croom’s been here to see you.”
“That rather pleasant young man without occupation?”
“Yes. He wanted to thank you.”
“For nothing, I’m afraid.” And Sir Lawrence’s quick dark eyes, like a snipe’s or woodcock’s, roved sceptically over his pretty niece. She was not, like Dinny, a special favourite, but she was undoubtedly attractive. It was early days to have messed up her marriage; Em had told him and said that it wasn’t to be mentioned. Well, Jerry Corven! People had always shrugged and hinted. Too bad! But no real business of his.
A subdued voice from the door said:
“Sir Gerald Corven has called, Sir Lawrence.”
Involuntarily Sir Lawrence put his finger to his lips. The butler subdued his voice still further.
“I put him in the little room and said I would see if Lady Corven was in.”
Sir Lawrence noted Clare’s hands hard pressed down on the back of the chair behind which she was standing.
“ARE you in, Clare?”
She did not answer, but her face was hard and pale as stone.
“A minute, Blore. Come back when I ring.”
The butler withdrew.
“Now, my dear?”
“He must have taken the next boat. Uncle, I don’t want to see him.”
“If we only say you’re out, he’ll probably come again.”
Clare threw back her head. “Well, I’ll see him!”
Sir Lawrence felt a little thrill.
“If you’d tell me what to say, I’d see him for you.”
“Thank you, Uncle, but I don’t see why you should do my dirty work.”
Sir Lawrence thought: ‘Thank God!’
“I’ll be handy in case you want me. Good luck, my dear!” And he went out.
Clare moved over to the fire; she wanted the bell within reach. She had the feeling, well known to her, of settling herself in the saddle for a formidable jump. ‘He shan’t touch me, anyway,’ she thought. She heard Blore’s voice say:
“Sir Gerald Corven, my lady.” Quaint! Announcing a husband to his wife! But staff knew everything!
Without looking she saw perfectly well where he was standing. A surge of shamed anger stained her cheeks. He had fascinated her; he had used her as every kind of plaything. He had—!
His voice, cuttingly controlled, said:
“Well, my dear, you were very sudden.” Neat and trim, as ever, and like a cat, with that thin-lipped smile and those daring despoiling eyes!
“What do you want?”
“Only yourself.”
“You can’t have me.”
“Absurd!”
He made the quickest kind of movement and seized her in his arms. Clare bent her head back and put her finger on the bell.
“Move back, or I ring!” and she put her other hand between his face and hers. “Stand over there and I’ll talk to you, otherwise you must go.”
“Very well! But it’s ridiculous.”
“Oh! Do you think I should have gone if I hadn’t been in earnest?”
“I thought you were just riled, and I don’t wonder. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no good discussing what happened. I know you, and I’m not coming back to you.”
“My dear, you have my apology, and I give you my word against anything of the sort again.”
“How good of you!”
“It was only an experiment. Some women adore it, if not at the time.”
“You are a beast.”
“And beauty married me. Come, Clare, don’t be silly, and make us a laughing-stock! You can fix your own conditions.”
“And trust you to keep them! Besides, that’s not my idea of a life. I’m only twenty-four.”
The smile left his lips.
“I see. I noticed a young man come out of this house. Name and estate?”
“Tony Croom. Well?”
He walked over to the window, and after a moment’s contemplation of the street, turned and said:
“You have the misfortune to be my wife.”
“So I was thinking.”
“Quite seriously, Clare, come back to me.”
“Quite seriously, no.”
“I have an official position, and I can’t play about with it. Look at me!” He came closer. “I may be all you think me, but I’m neither a humbug nor old-fashioned. I don’t trade on my position, or on the sanctity of marriage, or any of that stuff. But they still pay attention to that sort of thing in the Service, and I can’t afford to let you divorce me.”
“I didn’t expect it.”
“What then?”
“I know nothing except that I’m not coming back.”
“Just because of—?”
“And a great deal else.” The cat-like smile had come back and prevented her from reading what he was thinking.
“Do you want me to divorce you?”