Clare shrugged. “You have no reason.”
“So you would naturally say.”
“And mean.”
“Now look here, Clare, this is all absurd, and quite unworthy of anyone with your sense and knowledge of things. You can’t be a perpetual grass widow. You didn’t dislike the life out there.”
“There are some things that can’t be done to me, and you have done them.”
“I’ve said that they shan’t be done again.”
“And I’ve said that I can’t trust you.”
“This is going round the mulberry bush. Are you going to live on your people?”
“No. I’ve got a job.”
“Oh! What?”
“Secretary to our new Member.”
“You’ll be sick of that in no time.”
“I don’t think so.”
He stood staring at her without his smile. For a moment she could read his thoughts, for his face had the expression which preludes sex. Suddenly he said: “I won’t stand for another man having you.”
It was a comfort to have seen for once the bottom of his mind. She did not answer.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I meant it.”
“I could see that.”
“You’re a stony little devil.”
“I wish I had been.”
He took a turn up and down the room, and came to a stand dead in front of her.
“Look at me! I’m not going back without you. I’m staying at the Bristol. Be sensible, there’s a darling, and come to me there. We’ll start again. I’ll be ever so nice to you.”
Her control gave way, and she cried out: “Oh, for God’s sake, understand! You killed all the feeling I had for you.”
His eyes dilated and then narrowed, his lips became a line. He looked like a horse-breaker.
“And understand ME,” he said, very low, “you either come back to me or I divorce you. I won’t leave you here, to kick your heels.”
“I’m sure you’ll have the approval of every judicious husband.”
The smile reappeared on his lips.
“For that,” he said, “I’m going to have a kiss.” And before she could stop him he had fastened his lips on hers. She tore herself away and pressed the bell. He went quickly to the door.
“Au revoir!” he said, and went out.
Clare wiped her lips. She felt bewildered and exhausted, and quite ignorant whether to him or to her the day had gone.
She stood leaning her forehead on her hands over the fire, and became aware that Sir Lawrence had come back and was considerately saying nothing.
“Awfully sorry, Uncle; I shall be in my digs next week.”
“Have a cigarette, my dear.”
Clare took the cigarette, and inhaled its comfort. Her uncle had seated himself and she was conscious of the quizzical expression of his eyebrows.
“Conference had its usual success?”
Clare nodded.
“The elusive formula. The fact is, human beings are never satisfied with what they don’t want, however cleverly it’s put. Is it to be continued in our next?”
“Not so far as I’m concerned.”
“Pity there are always two parties to a conference.”
“Uncle Lawrence,” she said suddenly, “what is the law of divorce now?”
The baronet uncrossed his long thin legs.
“I’ve never had any particular truck with it. I believe it’s less old-fashioned than it was, but see Whitaker.” He reached for the red-backed volume. “Page 258—here you are, my dear.”
Clare read in silence, while he gazed at her ruefully. She looked up and said.
“Then, if I want him to divorce me, I’ve got to commit adultery.”
“That is, I believe, the elegant way they put it. In the best circles, however, the man does the dirty work.”
“Yes, but he won’t. He wants me back. Besides, he’s got his position to consider.”
“There is that, of course,” said Sir Lawrence, thoughtfully; “a career in this country is a tender plant.”
Clare closed the Whitaker.
“If it weren’t for my people,” she said, “I’d give him cause tomorrow and have done with it.”
“You don’t think a better way would be to give partnership another trial?”
Clare shook her head.
“I simply couldn’t.”
“That’s that, then,” said Sir Lawrence, “and it’s an awkward ‘that.’ What does Dinny say?”
“I haven’t discussed it with her. She doesn’t know he’s here.”
“At present, then, you’ve no one to advise you?”
“No. Dinny knows why I left, that’s all.”
“I should doubt if Jerry Corven is a very patient man.”
Clare laughed.
“We’re neither of us long-suffering.”
“Do you know where he is staying?”
“At the Bristol.”
“It might,” said Sir Lawrence slowly, “be worth while to keep an eye on him.”
Clare shivered. “It’s rather degrading; besides, Uncle, I don’t want to hurt his career. He’s very able, you know.”
Sir Lawrence shrugged. “To me,” he said, “and to all your kin, his career is nothing to your good name. How long has he got over here?”
“Not long, I should think.”
“Would you like me to see him, and try to arrange that you go your own ways?”
Clare was silent, and Sir Lawrence, watching her, thought: ‘Attractive, but a lot of naughty temper. Any amount of spirit, and no patience at all.’ Then she said:
“It was all my fault, nobody wanted me to marry him. I hate to bother you. Besides, he wouldn’t consent.”
“You never know,” murmured Sir Lawrence. “If I get a natural chance, shall I?”
“It would be lovely of you, only—”
“All right, then. In the meantime young men without jobs—are they wise?”
Clare laughed. “Oh, I’ve ‘larned’ him. Well, thank you frightfully, Uncle Lawrence. You’re a great comfort. I was an awful fool; but Jerry has a sort of power, you know; and I’ve always liked taking risks. I don’t see how I can be my mother’s daughter, she hates them; and Dinny only takes them on principle.” She sighed. “I won’t bore you any more now.” And, blowing a kiss, she went out.
Sir Lawrence stayed in his armchair thinking: ‘Putting my oar in! A nasty mess, and going to be nastier! Still, at her age something’s got to be done. I must talk to Dinny.’
CHAPTER 8
From Condaford the hot airs of election time had cleared away, and the succeeding atmosphere was crystallised in the General’s saying:
“Well, those fellows got their deserts.”
“Doesn’t it make you tremble, Dad, to think what THESE fellows’ deserts will be if they don’t succeed in putting it over now?”
The General smiled.
“‘Sufficient unto the day,’ Dinny. Has Clare settled down?”
“She’s in her diggings. Her work so far seems to have been writing letters of thanks to people who did the dirty work at the cross-roads.”
“Cars? Does she like Dornford?”
“She says he’s quite amazingly considerate.”
“His father was a good soldier. I was in his brigade in the Boer War for a bit.” He looked at his daughter keenly, and added: “Any news of Corven?”
“Yes, he’s over here.”
“Oh! I wish I wasn’t kept so in the dark. Parents have to stand on the mat nowadays, and trust to what they can hear through the keyhole.”
Dinny drew his arm within hers.
“One has to be so careful of their feelings. Sensitive plants, aren’t you, Dad?”
“Well, it seems to your mother and me an extraordinarily bad look-out. We wish to goodness the thing could be patched up.”
“Not at the expense of Clare’s happiness, surely?”
“No,” said the General, dubiously, “no; but there you are at once in all these matrimonial things. What is and will be her happiness? She doesn’t know, and you don’t, and I don’t. As a rule in trying to get out of a hole you promptly step into another.”
“Therefore don’t try? Stay in your hole? That’s rather what Labour wanted to do, isn’t it?”
“I ought to see him,” said the General, passing over the simile, “but I can’t go blundering in the dark. What do you advise, Dinny?”