Dinny’s eyes were the first to come to the level.
“How are Boswell and Johnson, Auntie?”
“I was tellin’ Adrian: Boswell’s taken to rollin’ the stone terrace, and Johnson’s lost his wife—poor thing. He’s a different man. Whistles all the time. His tunes ought to be collected.”
“Survivals of old England?”
“No, modern—he just wanders.”
“Talking of survivals,” said Sir Lawrence, “did you ever read Ask Mamma, Dinny?”
“No; who wrote it?”
“Surtees. You should. It’s a corrective.”
“Of what, Uncle?”
“Modernity.”
Lady Mont lowered her glass; it was empty.
“So wise of them to be stoppin’ this picture exhibition at 1900. D’you remember, Lawrence—in Paris, all those wiggly things we saw, and so much yellow and light blue—scrolls and blobs and faces upside-down? Dinny, we’d better go up.”
And when presently Blore brought the message—Would Miss Dinny go down to the study? She murmured:
“It’s about Jerry Corven. Don’t encourage your Uncle—he thinks he can do good, but he can’t.”…
“Well, Dinny?” said Sir Lawrence: “I always like talking to Adrian; he’s a well-tempered fellow with a mind of his own. I told Clare I would see Corven, but it’s no good seeing him without knowing what one wants to say. And not much then, I’m afraid. What do YOU think?”
Dinny, who had seated herself on the edge of her chair, set her elbows on her knees. It was an attitude from which Sir Lawrence augured ill.
“Judging from what he said to me today, Uncle Lawrence, his mind’s made up. Either Clare must go back to him or he’ll try to divorce her.”
“How will your people feel about that?”
“Very badly.”
“You know there’s a young man hanging round?”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t a bean.”
Dinny smiled. “We’re used to that.”
“I know, but no beans when you’re out of bounds is serious. Corven might claim damages, he looks a vindictive sort of chap.”
“D’you really think he would? It’s very bad form, nowadays, isn’t it?”
“Form matters very little when a man’s monkey is up. I suppose you couldn’t get Clare to apply the closure to young Croom?”
“I’m afraid Clare will refuse to be dictated to about whom she sees. She thinks the break-up is entirely Jerry’s fault.”
“I,” said Sir Lawrence, emitting a slow puff, “am in favour of having Corven watched while he’s over here, and collecting a shot, if possible, to fire across his bows, but she doesn’t like the idea of that.”
“She believes in his career, and doesn’t want to spoil it. Besides, it’s so revolting.”
Sir Lawrence shrugged.
“What would you? The law’s the law. He belongs to Burton’s. Shall I waylay him there and appeal to him to leave her here quietly, and see if absence will make her heart grow fond again?”
Dinny wrinkled her brows.
“It might be worth trying, but I don’t believe he’ll budge.”
“What line are you going to take yourself?”
“Back Clare in whatever she does or doesn’t do.”
Sir Lawrence nodded, having received the answer he expected.
CHAPTER 10
The quality which from time immemorial has made the public men of England what they are, tempted so many lawyers into Parliament, caused so many divines to put up with being bishops, floated so many financiers, saved so many politicians from taking thought for the morrow, and so many judges from the pangs of remorse, was present in Eustace Dornford to no small degree. Put more shortly, he had an excellent digestion; could eat and drink at all times without knowing anything about it afterwards. He was an indefatigably hard worker even at play; and there was in him just that added fund of nervous energy which differentiates the man who wins the long jump from the man who loses it. And now, though his practice was going up by leaps and bounds since, two years ago, he had taken silk, he had stood for Parliament. And yet he was the last sort of man to incur the epithet ‘go-getter.’ His pale-brown, hazel-eyed, well-featured face had a considerate, even a sensitive look, and a pleasant smile. He had kept a little fine dark moustache, and his wig had not yet depleted his natural hair, which was dark and of rather curly texture. After Oxford he had eaten dinners and gone into the Chambers of a well-known Common Law Junior. Being a subaltern in the Shropshire Yeomanry when the war broke out, he had passed into the Cavalry, and not long after into the trenches, where he had known better luck than most people. His rise at the Bar after the war had been rapid. Solicitors liked him. He never fell foul of judges, and as a cross-examiner stood out, because he almost seemed to regret the points he scored. He was a Roman Catholic, from breeding rather than observance. Finally, he was fastidious in matters of sex, and his presence at a dinner-table on circuit had, if not a silencing, at least a moderating effect on tongues.
He occupied in Harcourt Buildings a commodious set of chambers designed for life as well as learning. Early every morning, wet or fine, he went for a ride in the Row, having already done at least two hours’ work on his cases. By ten o’clock, bathed, breakfasted, and acquainted with the morning’s news, he was ready for the Courts. When at four those Courts rose, he was busy again till half-past six on his cases. The evenings, hitherto free, would now be spent at the House: and since it would be seldom that he could go to bed without working an hour or so on some case or other, his sleep was likely to be curtailed from six hours to five, or even four.
The arrangement come to with Clare was simple. She arrived at a quarter to ten, opened his correspondence, and took his instructions from ten to a quarter past. She remained to do what was necessary, and came again at six o’clock, ready for anything fresh or left over.
On the evening after that last described, at the hour of eight-fifteen, he entered the drawing-room in Mount Street, was greeted, and introduced to Adrian, who had again been bidden. Discussing the state of the pound and other grave matters, they waited, till Lady Mont said suddenly: “Soup. What have you done with Clare, Mr. Dornford?”
His eyes, which had hitherto taken in little but Dinny, regarded his hostess with a faint surprise.
“She left the Temple at half-past six, saying we should meet again.”
“Then,” said Lady Mont, “we’ll go down.”
There followed one of those discomfortable hours well known to well-bred people, when four of them are anxious upon a subject which they must not broach to the fifth, and the fifth becomes aware of this anxiety.
They were, indeed, too few for the occasion, for all that each one of them said could be heard by the others. It was impossible for Eustace Dornford to be confidential with either of his neighbours; and since he instinctively felt that without a preliminary confidence he would only put his foot into it, he was careful to be public-minded and keep to such topics as the Premier, the undiscovered identity of certain poisoners, the ventilation of the House of Commons, the difficulty of knowing exactly what to do with one’s hat there, and other subjects of general interest. But, by the end of dinner he was so acutely aware that they were burning to say things he mustn’t hear, that he invented a professional telephone call, and was taken out of the room by Blore.
The moment he had gone Dinny said:
“She must have been waylaid, Auntie. Could I be excused and go and see?”
Sir Lawrence answered:
“Better wait till we break, Dinny; a few minutes can’t matter now.”
“Don’t you think,” said Adrian, “that Dornford ought to know how things stand? She goes to him every day.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Sir Lawrence.
“No,” said Lady Mont. “Dinny must tell him. Wait for him here, Dinny. We’ll go up.”
Thus it was that, returning to the dining-room after his trunk-call to someone whom he knew to be away from home, Dornford found Dinny waiting. She handed him the cigars and said: