“D’you mind if I change?” said Clare, and vanished into the bathroom.
Left alone with her sister’s problem, Dinny had the feeling of helplessness which comes to all but such as constitutionally ‘know better.’ She went dejectedly to the window and drew aside the curtain. All was darkish and dingy. A car had drawn out of a neighbouring garage and stood waiting for its driver.
‘Imagine trying to sell antiques here!’ she thought. She saw a man come round the corner close by and stop, looking at the numbers. He moved along the opposite side, then came back and stood still just in front of No. 2. She noted the assurance and strength in that trim over-coated figure.
‘Good heavens!’ she thought: ‘Jerry!’ She dropped the curtain and crossed quickly to the bathroom door. As she opened it she heard the desolate tinkling of the sheep-bell installed by the antique dealer.
Clare was standing in her underthings under the single bulb, examining her lips with a hand-glass. Dinny filled the remains of the four feet by two of standing room.
“Clare,” she said, “it’s HIM!”
Clare turned. The gleam of her pale arms, the shimmer of her silk garments, the startled light in her dark eyes, made her even to her sister something of a vision.
“Jerry?”
Dinny nodded.
“Well, I won’t see him.” She looked at the watch on her wrist. “And I’m due at seven. Damn!”
Dinny, who had not the faintest desire that she should keep her rash appointment, said, to her own surprise:
“Shall I go? He must have seen the light.”
“Could you take him away with you, Dinny?”
“I can try.”
“Then do, darling. It’d be ever so sweet of you. I wonder how he’s found out. Hell! It’s going to be a persecution.”
Dinny stepped back into the sitting-room, turned out the light there, and went down the twisting stair. The sheep-bell tinkled again above her as she went. Crossing that little empty room to the door, she thought: ‘It opens inwards, I must pull it to behind me.’ Her heart beat fast, she took a deep breath, opened the door swiftly, stepped out and pulled it to with a slam. She was chest to chest with her brother-inlaw, and she started back with an admirably impromptu: “Who is it?”
He raised his hat, and they stood looking at each other.
“Dinny! Is Clare in?”
“Yes; but she can’t see anyone.”
“You mean she WON’T see ME?”
“If you like to put it that way.”
He stood looking intently at her with his daring eyes.
“Another day will do. Which way are you going?”
“To Mount Street.”
“I’ll come with you, if I may.”
“Do.”
She moved along at his side, thinking: ‘Be careful!’ For in his company she did not feel towards him quite as in his absence. As everybody said, Jerry Corven had charm!
“Clare’s been giving me bad marks, I suppose?”
“We won’t discuss it, please; whatever she feels, I do too.”
“Naturally. Your loyalty’s proverbial. But consider, Dinny, how provocative she is.” His eyes smiled round at her. That vision—of neck, and curve, and shimmer, dark hair and eyes! Sex appeal—horrible expression! “You’ve no idea how tantalising. Besides, I was always an experimentalist.”
Dinny stood still suddenly: “This is my sister, you know.”
“You’re sure, I suppose? It seems queer when one looks at you both.”
Dinny walked on, and did not answer.
“Now listen, Dinny,” began that pleasant voice. “I’m a sensualist, if you like, but what does it matter? Sex is naturally aberrational. If anyone tells you it isn’t, don’t believe them. These things work themselves out, and anyway they’re not important. If Clare comes back to me, in two years’ time she won’t even remember. She likes the sort of life, and I’m not fussy. Marriage is very much a go-as-you-please affair.”
“You mean that by that time you’ll be experimenting with someone else?”
He shrugged, looked round at her, and smiled.
“Almost embarrassing this conversation, isn’t it? What I want you to grasp is that I’m two men. One, and it’s the one that matters, has his work to do and means to do it. Clare should stick to that man, because he’ll give her a life in which she won’t rust; she’ll be in the thick of affairs and people who matter; she’ll have stir and movement—and she loves both. She’ll have a certain power, and she’s not averse from that. The other man—well, he wants his fling, he takes it, if you like; but the worst is over so far as she’s concerned—at least, it will be when we’ve settled down again. You see, I’m honest, or shameless if you like it better.”
“I don’t see, in all this,” said Dinny drily, “where love comes in.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t. Marriage is composed of mutual interest and desire. The first increases with the years, the latter fades. That ought to be exactly what she wants.”
“I can’t speak for Clare, but I don’t see it that way.”
“You haven’t tried yourself out, my dear.”
“No,” said Dinny, “and on those lines I trust I never may. I should dislike alternation between commerce and vice.”
He laughed.
“I like your bluntness. But seriously, Dinny, you ought to influence her. She’s making a great mistake.”
A sudden fury seized on Dinny.
“I think,” she said, between her teeth, “it was you who made the great mistake. If you do certain things to certain horses you’re never on terms with them again.”
He was silent at that.
“You don’t want a divorce in the family,” he said at last, and looked round at her steadily. “I’ve told Clare that I can’t let her divorce me. I’m sorry, but I mean that. Further, if she won’t come back to me, she can’t go as she pleases.”
“You mean,” said Dinny, between her teeth, “that if she does come back to you she can?”
“That’s what it would come to, I daresay.”
“I see. I think I’ll say good-night.”
“As you please. You think me cynical. That’s as may be. I shall do my best to get Clare back. If she won’t come she must watch out.”
They had stopped under a lamp-post and with an effort Dinny forced her eyes to his. He was as formidable, shameless, and mesmerically implacable as a cat, with that thin smile and unflinching stare. She said, quietly: “I quite understand. Goodnight!”
“Good-night, Dinny! I’m sorry, but it’s best to know where we stand. Shake hands?”
Rather to her surprise she let him take her hand, then turned the corner into Mount Street.
CHAPTER 9
She entered her Aunt’s house with all her passionate loyalty to her own breed roused, yet understanding better what had made Clare take Jerry Corven for husband. There WAS mesmerism about him, and a clear shameless daring which had its fascination. One could see what a power he might be among native peoples, how ruthlessly, yet smoothly, he would have his way with them; and how he might lay a spell over his associates. She could see, too, how difficult he might be to refuse physically, until he had outraged all personal pride.
Her Aunt’s voice broke her painful absorption with the words: “Here she is, Adrian.”
At the top of the stairs her Uncle Adrian’s goatee-bearded face was looking over his sister’s shoulder.
“Your things have come, my dear. Where have you been?”
“With Clare, Auntie.”
“Dinny,” said Adrian, “I haven’t seen you for nearly a year.”
“This is where we kiss, Uncle. Is all well in Bloomsbury, or has the slump affected bones?”
“Bones in esse are all right; in posse they look dicky—no money for expeditions. The origin of Homo sapiens is more abstruse than ever.”
“Dinny, we needn’t dress. Adrian’s stoppin’ for dinner. Lawrence will be so relieved. You can pow-wow while I loosen my belt, or do you want to tighten yours?”
“No, thank you, Auntie.”
“Then go in there.”