Immediately a flood of policemen armed with batons poured through the french windows, and made a series of arrests. The Communists were borne off into the scented night, twisting and biting. One of them had been standing close to Griselda, screeching out vilifications, his face that of a modern gargoyle. In the rough and tumble with the police he was knocked out and dragged from the ballroom by the legs.
‘Ladies and gentleman. Supper is served.’
Mrs Hatch had resumed control. Griselda was startled by the volume of the cadaverous Brundrit’s voice, as he stood at the other side of the ballroom, just inside the door from the passage.
For the most part, the guests pulled themselves together smartly, and another long queue began to form. The Communists had provided everyone with something to talk about. A small group, however, remained round the platform, and between the heads Griselda could see that both Mr Leech and Mr Minnit lay recumbent in their chairs. Recalling for the second time during the visit her slight knowledge of first-aid, she was about to go forward and offer assistance, when a handsome figure detached itself from the group and approached. It was Edwin.
‘How entirely that mask becomes you.’
Griselda had forgotten. She groped at the knot behind her head.
‘No. Don’t take it off. Unless, of course, you wish; in which case you must allow me to assist.’
‘Clearly it is no disguise.’
‘Were you seeking to escape supper?’
Griselda remembered. It was appalling.
‘I went out in the garden. I am dreadfully rude.’
‘Not at all. The speeches, you know, were to have been after supper. The broadcasting arrangements were responsible for the change. It’s late, but at least we’ve now nothing to do but enjoy ourselves.’ He offered Griselda his arm. They moved towards the tail of the queue.
‘What about poor Mr Leech?’ Edwin’s lack of concern seemed inconsistent with his usual attitude to Cabinet Ministers.
‘He’ll be better soon. One becomes used to these things in politics.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘They’re all to the good really. They bring the sediment to the surface so that it can be skimmed off instead of seeping all through society.’
‘How did they get in?’
‘In the BBC van. This is going to take a long time.’ The queue was advancing at a pace so irksome to the ravening guests that, here and there, some of them had to recall to others the conventions of behaviour. ‘If you’ll excuse me for just a single minute, I’ll see if something can be done.’
With a precise movement Edwin replaced Griselda’s arm by her side, then disappeared out of the ballroom and into the passage, leaving her alone in the queue. Shortly afterwards he returned.
‘I’ve made arrangements.’
Ignoring the queue, he took Griselda into a little book-lined study, where the Duke and Duchess, together with a group of elegant people Griselda had not met, were eating and drinking in privacy. Everybody was speaking German, in which language Edwin immediately gave every appearance of being word-perfect, though Griselda could not be sure. He conversed animatedly with her, every now and then throwing out a remark in German to the others; and looked after her needs with delightful punctiliousness. She was introduced to the strangers, who made her welcome in broken English, and complimented her upon her mask. The Duchess, radiant in her tight dress, kept a kindly eye upon her welfare. Though Griselda understood little of the general conversation (Edwin was discussing the year’s books with her), the atmosphere was friendly and delightful. Griselda had become very hungry in the night air. She ate happily, and drank luxuriously from a glass with a hollow stem.
Suddenly the Duchess cried out in her attractive voice ‘Shall we have a game?’ She had been speaking German so much as a German does, and now spoke English so much as does an English-woman long married to a foreigner and resident abroad, that Griselda was at a loss to decide her nationality, whether English, German, or Ruritanian.
Conversation ceased and there were guttural cries of assent. They all seated themselves round a large polished table and the Duchess explained to Griselda the rules of an extremely simple card game. They began to play. The game was neither dependent on chance nor exigent of skilclass="underline" it demanded a degree of intelligence which Griselda, in the circumstances, found perfectly appropriate and delightful. The language difficulty seemed strangely to vanish once they were all immersed, giving Griselda a dreamy illusion of brilliant communicativeness. Small sums of money continually passed, the women every now and then turning out their gay evening handbags for change. Edwin continued to ply Griselda with champagne, nor were the other players backward in drinking. From time to time Griselda wondered what was becoming of the dance, but decided that if the others were unconcerned, she would be unconcerned also. It had been obvious that the main business of the evening was over by the time she had left the ballroom.
No one had interrupted them, but, at the end of a round, suddenly one of the men, a fair youth, resembling Lohengrin, said something in German, and, rising, locked the door. Several of the women (whose ages were unusually disparate), thereupon embarked on motions apparently preliminary to removing their clothes.
Griselda was a little drunk, but not too drunk to observe that her new friends seemed unanimously to turn to some new pursuit upon a word from one of them.
The women were wearing little and the present process could not last long. Almost before it started, however, the Duchess realized that Griselda, as a stranger among them and of a different nation from the majority, might wish to leave. Probably the young man, in making his proposal, had forgotten about her. But at a word, he unlocked the door, they all ceremoniously bade her Good-night, and Edwin escorted her into the hall. The door shut behind them.
Outside the little room it was cool and quiet. Griselda found that all the other guests had apparently departed.
‘I expect,’ said Edwin, ‘that you must be ready for bed. Or can I do anything further?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Griselda, drowsy with drink. ‘You have been really very kind to me. I enjoyed the Duchess’s card game.’
‘I think the others have gone up already.’ Edwin and Griselda were drifting towards the staircase.
‘I am sure they have. Good night. And thank you again.’
‘Good night, Griselda.’ It was obvious that, in the most considerate possible way, he wished to be rid of her. She ascended.
Even at this distance the air was loaded with the smell of the banked carnations in the ballroom. It had long since overpowered the smell of cordite.
XI
Griselda did not again see or hear of Louise until the following evening. It was a desert of time; and a desert with few oases. However, she had happy thoughts and bright, vague prospects: things often preferable to the presence of the being who inspires them.
Back in her room she felt tired and contented, though her mask would not slip over the top of her head and the untying of the knot proved tedious. In the end, however, the labour was accomplished and the velvet strip lay on the dressing-table before her, loading the air with the smell of Louise. Griselda sat resting her arms, looking at the mask, and thinking. How and when, she wondered, would the late guests return to their homes? How had Edwin, although still quite young, achieved welcome ingress into every single one of the world’s innumerable diverse sodalities? Was Mr Leech alive or dead? What would become of her and Louise, once they had left Beams? Louise’s scent wafted strongly to her brain: more strongly than the faint vapours from the mask could account for. Either it was Stephanie; or it was Griselda’s first experience of a lover’s hallucination of the sense of smell. The memory of her ecstacy in the garden swept even fear from her.