‘At any rate,’ said Sir Philip, ‘I can take it that this is all part and parcel of her cranky behaviour?’
‘In a sense, yes.’ I said I could not add to that answer.
Sir Philip became brisk, almost relieved. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that is the best news I’ve heard today. Charles must bring her to heel. I’ve always thought it was scandalous for him to let her indulge in this nonsense. Particularly a young woman as good-looking as she is. He ought to keep her busier himself.’ Into the yellowing parchment face there came a smile, appreciative and salacious. It might have been a flicker of himself as a younger man, the Philip who had an eye for the women, the Philip who, so the family gossip said, had kept a string of mistresses.
‘I cannot let you delude yourself,’ said Mr March.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You are inclined to think the position is less dangerous because my son’s wife is responsible for it.’
The weight of Mr March’s words told on Sir Philip.
He replied irritably: ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I’ve always heard that the young woman is devoted to Charles.’
‘I have no reason to believe the contrary.’
‘Then she’ll do what he tells her, in the end.’
There was a silence, Mr March cried: ‘I cannot answer for what my son will tell her.’
‘You’re not being reasonable.’ Sir Philip’s tone was harassed and sharp. ‘Charles has always had decent feelings for me, hasn’t he? You’ve only got to let him know that this is serious for me. If they go on far enough, they may make it impossible for me to stay in public life. Well then. Be as considerate as you can, and tell him none of us would interfere with his wife’s activities as a general rule, though he might take it from me that she should have something better to do with her time. But tell him this is too important for me and the family for us to be delicate. We must ask him to’ assert himself.’
‘You don’t know how much you’re asking,’ I broke out.
‘If the thing’s possible, it’s got to be done,’ said Sir Philip.
‘I will make those representations,’ said Mr March. ‘But I cannot answer for the consequences.’
‘If you prefer it,’ said Sir Philip, ‘I am quite prepared to speak to Charles.’
‘No, Philip,’ Mr March said. ‘I must do it myself.’
Sir Philip stared at him, and then said: ‘I’m not willing to leave anything to chance. I expect Charles to act immediately.’
He looked at his brother for agreement, but Mr March barely moved his head in acquiescence.
‘I shouldn’t like to go out under a cloud,’ said Sir Philip. ‘Of course, we’ve all got to go some time, but no one likes being forced out.’ Suddenly his tone altered, and he said quickly: ‘Mind you, I’m not ready to admit that my usefulness is over yet. I’ve some pieces of work in this department I want to carry through, and after that—’
Inexplicably his mood had changed, and he began to talk of his expectations. He hoped to keep his office for six months, until there was a reshuffle in the government; he speculated on the reshuffle name by name, knowing this kind of politics just as he knew the March family. If one combination came off, he might still get a minor ministry for himself. For that he was hoping.
It was strange to hear him that afternoon. It was stranger still to hear Mr March, after a time, join in. Preoccupied, with occasional silences, he nevertheless joined in, and they forecast the chances of Sir Philip’s acquaintances, among them Holford’s son. Lord Holford — to whose party Charles had taken me years before — had a son whom he was trying to manoeuvre into a political success. Both Sir Philip and Mr March were anxious to secure that he did not get so much as a parliamentary private secretaryship.
It was strange to listen to them. No one, it seemed to me, had the power continuously to feel old. There were moments, many of them, when a man as realistic as Mr March was menaced by the grave — as in the club that afternoon, when he saw that his contemporaries were decrepit men. But those moments did not last. There were others, as now, when Sir Philip and Mr March could fear, could hope, just as they would have feared and hoped thirty years before. They were making plans at that moment: Sir Philip at seventy-three was still hoping for a ministry. There was no incongruity to himself: he hoped for it exactly as a young man would. The griefs and hopes of Mr March or Sir Philip might seem to an outsider softened and pathetic, because of the man’s age: but to the man himself, age did not matter, they were simply the griefs and hopes of his own timeless self.