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And yet, strangely, Eustace Dornford, verging on middle age, was continually being visited, whether the sun shone or not, by the feeling of one who sits on a low wall in the first spring warmth, seeing life as a Botticellian figure advancing towards him through an orchard of orange trees and spring flowers. At less expenditure of words, he was ‘in love’ with Dinny. Each morning when he saw Clare he was visited by a longing not to dictate on parliamentary subjects, but rather to lead her to talk about her sister. Self-controlled, however, and with a sense of humour, he bowed to his professional inhibitions, merely asking Clare whether she and her sister would dine with him, “on Saturday—here, or at the Café Royal?”

“Here would be more original.”

“Would you care to ask a man to make a fourth?”

“But won’t you, Mr. Dornford?”

“You might like someone special.”

“Well, there’s young Tony Croom, who was on the boat with me. He’s a nice boy.”

“Good! Saturday, then. And you’ll ask your sister?”

Clare did not say: “She’s probably on the doorstep,” for, as a fact, she was. Every evening that week she was coming at half-past six to accompany Clare back to Melton Mews. There were still chances, and the sisters were not taking them.

On hearing of the invitation Dinny said: “When I left you late that night I ran into Tony Croom, and we walked back to Mount Street together.”

“You didn’t tell him about Jerry’s visit to me?”

“Of course not!”

“It’s hard on him, as it is. He really is a nice boy, Dinny.”

“So I saw. And I wish he weren’t in London.”

Clare smiled. “Well, he won’t be for long; he’s to take charge of some Arab mares for Mr. Muskham down at Bablock Hythe.”

“Jack Muskham lives at Royston.”

“The mares are to have a separate establishment in a milder climate.”

Dinny roused herself from memories with an effort.

“Well, darling, shall we strap-hang on the Tube, or go a bust in a taxi?”

“I want air. Are you up to walking?”

“Rather! We’ll go by the Embankment and the Parks.”

They walked quickly, for it was cold. Lamplit and star-covered, that broad free segment of the Town had a memorable dark beauty; even on the buildings, their daylight features abolished, was stamped a certain grandeur.

Dinny murmured: “London at night IS beautiful.”

“Yes, you go to bed with a beauty and wake up with a barmaid. And, what’s it all for? A clotted mass of energy like an ant-heap.”

“‘So fatiguin’,’ as Aunt Em would say.”

“But what IS it all for, Dinny?”

“A workshop trying to turn out perfect specimens; a million failures to each success.”

“Is that worth while?”

“Why not?”

“Well, what is there to BELIEVE in?”

“Character.”

“How do you mean?”

“Character’s our way of showing the desire for perfection. Nursing the best that’s in one.”

“Hum!” said Clare. “Who’s to decide what’s best within one?”

“You have me, my dear.”

“Well, I’m too young for it, anyway.”

Dinny hooked her arm within her sister’s.

“You’re older than I am, Clare.”

“No, I’ve had more experience perhaps, but I haven’t communed with my own spirit and been still. I feel in my bones that Jerry’s hanging round the Mews.”

“Come into Mount Street, and we’ll go to a film.”

In the hall Blore handed Dinny a note.

“Sir Gerald Corven called, Miss, and left this for you.”

Dinny opened it.

“DEAR DINNY,—

“I’m leaving England tomorrow instead of Saturday. If Clare will change her mind I shall be very happy to take her. If not, she must not expect me to be long-suffering. I have left a note to this effect at her lodgings, but as I do not know where she is, I wrote to you also, so as to be sure that she knows. She or a message from her will find me at the Bristol up to three o’clock tomorrow, Thursday. After that ‘à la guerre comme à la guerre.’

“With many regrets that things are so criss-cross and good wishes to yourself,

“I am,

“Very sincerely yours,

“GERALD CORVEN.”

Dinny bit her lip.

“Read this!”

Clare read the note.

“I shan’t go, and he can do what he likes.”

While they were titivating themselves in Dinny’s room, Lady Mont came in.

“Ah!” she said: “Now I can say my piece. Your Uncle has seen Jerry Corven again. What are you goin’ to do about him, Clare?”

As Clare swivelled round from the mirror, the light fell full on cheeks and lips whose toilet she had not quite completed.

“I’m never going back to him, Aunt Em.”

“May I sit on your bed, Dinny? ‘Never’ is a long time, and—er—that Mr. Craven. I’m sure you have principles, Clare, but you’re too pretty.”

Clare put down her lipstick.

“Sweet of you, Aunt Em; but really I know what I’m about.”

“So comfortin’! When I say that myself, I’m sure to make a gaffe.”

“If Clare promises, she’ll perform, Auntie.”

Lady Mont sighed. “I promised my father not to marry for a year. Seven months—and then your uncle. It’s always somebody.”

Clare raised her hands to the little curls on her neck.

“I’ll promise not to ‘kick over’ for a year. I ought to know my own mind by then; if I don’t, I can’t have got one.”

Lady Mont smoothed the eiderdown.

“Cross your heart.”

“I don’t think you should,” said Dinny quickly.

Clare crossed her fingers on her breast.

“I’ll cross where it ought to be.”

Lady Mont rose.

“She ought to stay here to-night, don’t you think, Dinny?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell them, then. Sea-green IS your colour, Dinny. Lawrence says I haven’t one.”

“Black and white, dear.”

“Magpies and the Duke of Portland. I haven’t been to Ascot since Michael went to Winchester—savin’ our pennies. Hilary and May are comin’ to dinner. They won’t be dressed.”

“Oh!” said Clare suddenly: “Does Uncle Hilary know about me?”

“Broad-minded,” murmured Lady Mont. “I can’t help bein’ sorry, you know.”

Clare stood up.

“Believe me, Aunt Em, Jerry’s not the sort of man who’ll let it hurt him long.”

“Stand back to back, you two; I thought so—Dinny by an inch.”

“I’m five foot five,” said Clare, “without shoes.”

“Very well. When you’re tidy, come down.”

So saying, Lady Mont swayed to the door, said to herself: “Solomon’s seal—remind Boswell,” and went out.

Dinny returned to the fire, and resumed her stare at the flames.

Clare’s voice, close behind her, said: “I feel inclined to sing, Dinny. A whole year’s holiday from everything. I’m glad Aunt Em made me promise. But isn’t she a scream?”

“Emphatically not. She’s the wisest member of our family. Take life seriously and you’re nowhere. She doesn’t. She may want to, but she can’t.”

“But she hasn’t any real worries.”

“Only a husband, three children, several grandchildren, two households, three dogs, some congenital gardeners, not enough money, and two passions—one for getting other people married, and one for French tapestry; besides trying hard not to get fat on it all.”