“Well, old cock,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. This is a bit of luck. What are you up to? On leave, or stationed in London?”
Before I could answer, Priscilla herself came up to the table. She had followed Stevens almost at once. There was not much else for her to do. Even if she might have preferred to postpone a meeting, in due course inevitable, or, like myself, hoped to reduce contacts to no more than a nod or brief word at the end of the evening, Stevens had given her no chance to impede his own renewal of acquaintance. His principle was to work on impulse. Nothing could have prevented him from making the move he had. Now that had taken place, she no doubt judged the best tactical course was to ally herself with this explosive greeting; as good a way of handling the situation as any other, if it had to be handled at all. Besides, Priscilla may have felt that, by joining us, she could keep an eye on Stevens; modify, if necessary, whatever he might say.
“Yes, why are you here, Nick?” she asked, speaking challengingly, as if I, rather than her, found myself in doubtful company. “I thought you were miles away across the sea. And Hugh — how marvellous to see you again after so long. I was listening to something of yours in a B.B.C. programme last week.”
She was perfectly self-possessed. If aware of rumours afloat about herself and Stevens — of which she could hardly be ignorant, had she bothered to give a moment’s thought to the matter — Priscilla was perfectly prepared to brazen these out. The two of them could not know, of course, how narrowly they had missed Lovell himself. Perhaps, again, neither cared. Lovell’s taste for drama would certainly have been glutted, had they arrived an hour or so earlier. In the group we now formed, Moreland was the one who seemed most embarrassed. Conventionally speaking, he had not risen to the occasion very successfully. His highly developed intuitive faculties had instantly registered something was amiss; while the mere fact he had himself once been in love with Priscilla was, in any case, enough to agitate him, when unexpectedly confronted with her. No doubt he was also piqued at her coming on him in circumstances which must reveal sooner or later he and Mrs. Maclintick were making a life together. He muttered something or other about whatever composition Priscilla had heard on the radio, but seemed unable to pursue any coherent conversation. Mrs. Maclintick stared at Stevens without friendliness, though a good deal of curiosity, a reception that seemed perfectly to satisfy him.
“Look here,” he said. “Are you all having a very special private party? If not, couldn’t we come and sit with you? This is the chance of a lifetime to make a jolly evening of my last night in London for a long time — who knows, perhaps for ever. I’m on embarkation leave, you know, have to catch a train back to my unit to-night.”
He began addressing this speech to me, but, half-way through, turned towards Mrs. Maclintick, as if to appeal to her good nature. She did not offer much encouragement; at the same time issued no immediate refusal.
“Anything you like,” she said. “I’m too tired to care much what happens. Been on my feet all day doling out shepherd’s pie made of sausage meat and stale swiss roll all minced up together. But don’t expect Moreland to pay. I’ve let him have enough out of the house-keeping money to cover our share of dinner — and an extra round of drinks if we can get that.”
Moreland made some sort of protest at this, half amused, half ashamed. Stevens, obviously assessing Mrs. Maclintick’s measure at a glance (just as Stringham had, at the party years before after Moreland’s symphony), laughed loudly. She glared at him for treating her self-pity so lightly, but, although fierce in expression, her stare was not entirely one of dislike.
“We’ll be absolutely self-supporting, I promise that,” said Stevens. “I’ve only got a quid or two left myself, but Priscilla cashed a cheque earlier in the day, so we’ll have to prise it out of her if necessary.”
“You may not find that so easy,” said Priscilla, laughing too, though perhaps not best pleased at this indication of being permanently in the company of Stevens. “In the end Nick will probably have to fork out, as a relation. Will if really be all right if we join you, Nick?”
Although she said this lightly, in the same sort of vein used by Stevens himself, she spoke now with less assurance than he. Certainly she would, in any case, have preferred no such suggestion to be made. Once put, she was not going to run counter to it. She was determined to support her lover, show nothing was going to intimidate her. No doubt she had hoped to spend the evening tête-à-tête with him, especially if this were his last night in England. Even apart from that, there was, from her own point of view, nothing whatever to be said for deliberately joining a group of people that included a brother-in-law. On the other hand, she had perhaps already learnt the impossibility of dissuading Stevens from doing things the way he wanted them done. Perhaps, again, that was one of the attractions he exercised, in contrast with Lovell, usually amenable in most social matters. Stevens clearly possessed one of those personalities that require constant reinforcement for their egotism and energy by the presence and attention of other people round them, an audience to whom they can “show off.” Such men are attractive to women, at the same time hard for women to keep at heel. For my own part, I would much rather have prevented the two of them from sitting with us, but, short of causing what might almost amount to a “scene,” there seemed no way of avoiding this. Even assuming I made some more or less discouraging gesture, that was likely to prove not only rather absurd, but also useless from Lovell’s point of view; perhaps even undesirable where Lovell’s interests were in question.
“I mean you look a bit uncertain, Nick?” said Priscilla, laughing again.
Obviously the thoughts going through my head were as clear as day to her.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Half a minute,” said Stevens. “I’ll try and find a waiter and get another chair. We can’t all cram together on the banquette.”
He went off. Mrs. Maclintick began some complicated financial computation with Moreland. This was going to hold the attention of the pair of them for a minute or two. Priscilla had sat down, and, perhaps because she felt herself more vulnerable without Stevens, had her head down, fumbling in her bag, as if she wanted to avoid my eye. I felt some statement should be made which might, at least to some small extent, define my own position. It was now or never. Any such “statement” was, I thought, to be conceived of as the term is made use of by the police, for the description of an accident or crime, a brief summary of what happened, how and why it took place or was committed.
“I had a drink with Chips this evening.”
She looked up.
“Chips?”
“Here — just before dinner. He thought he might see you at Bijou Ardglass’s party at the Madrid.”
That information would at least prevent her from taking Stevens to the restaurant, had the thought been in her mind, though, at the same time, could prejudice any faint chance of herself looking in at the Ardglass party after Stevens had left to catch his train. Such a possibility had to be faced. A chance must be taken on that. It was, in any case, unlikely she would go later to the Madrid. Everything would close down by midnight at the latest, probably before that.
“Oh, but is Chips in London?”
She was plainly surprised.
“At Combined Ops.”
“On the Combined Ops staff?”
“Yes.”
“That was only a possibility when I last heard.”
“It’s happened.”
“Chips thought the move wouldn’t be for a week or two, even if it came off. His last letter only reached me this morning. It chased all over the country after me. I’m at Aunt Molly’s.”