‘“Like a good deed in a naughty world.” You are sensitive to the beauty of words?’
‘Of course. I own a bookshop.’
‘It would be pleasant to live so high up.’ Guillaume sighed and looked about in the twilight for his hat.
‘Here.’ Griselda extended the object. It was a close replica of that worn by Mazzini when in disguise.
‘Good-bye,’ said Guillaume, assimilating and retaining her hand. ‘I grieve for you.’
‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Griselda, struggling slightly.
‘You mustn’t deny me that single luxury.’ He kissed her heavily and adhesively upon the brow and went away, reeking of charity and peppermint.
Griselda drew the curtains, turned on the lights, and prepared for herself a satisfying, solitary tea, including cucumber sandwiches, and custard creams, new and crisp. For the first time since before Christmas, she felt able to regard herself and find all her faculties present and functioning. Before long she wondered whether it was not even more than that: whether she was not in process of restoration against the consequences of losing Louise. It might be that her marriage to Kynaston had been required to achieve that.
The only awful thought was that Guillaume’s hints, bearing in mind Guillaume’s nature, might have been untrue.
XXXII
Griselda thereafter took particular trouble to be kind and understanding to Lena, despite provocations which steadily increased.
One morning, as the anniversary of her wedding drew near, Griselda sat in the little office after the shop had closed. She was writing and addressing Christmas Cards, designed by herself. Lena had been supposed to be keeping an appointment of some kind, but at the last moment had decided not to go. She was wandering about the shop examining the stock with dissatisfaction.
Just as Griselda decided that she was not called upon to send a specially designed Christmas Card to Mrs Hatch, Lena called out ‘Griselda. May I talk to you? Or do I interrupt?’ She was seated on top of one of the shop ladders.
‘Of course you don’t interrupt. I’ve hardly spoken to you alone for weeks.’
‘I think our books are frightful. There’s an entire shelf of Warwick Deeping.’
‘It’s right up under the ceiling. No one can see it.’
‘And under it Jeffrey Farnol.’
‘That’s just old stock.’
‘And under that J. B. Priestley.’
‘We’ve got to live.’
‘I’d rather live honestly.’
‘Come down and talk about it.’
Lena descended and entered the office. She had taken to wearing dresses; which did not suit her personality. Griselda reflected with interest upon the deterioration in her own clothes since marriage.
‘I want to hand back my partnership. With thanks, of course, Griselda.’
‘I can’t do without you.’
Lena upturned the wastepaper basket, and sat upon it. The floor was now covered with the transactions of the day.
‘I’m going to live abroad.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere warm.’
‘North Africa?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Dear Lena. Of course, it’s a man?’
‘The feeling when you haven’t got one is exceeded only by the quite different feeling when you have. But you don’t know about that.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘Not this particular example of it.’
‘Then why leave the shop?’
‘I told you. I don’t like the books we stock. The books we have to stock. I admit that. I still don’t like them.’
‘Is it that he still chases you?’
‘Mind your own business, Griselda.’ Then she added ‘You’ll be much better without me.’ Griselda had never seen or even imagined her so distressed. She spoke very gently.
‘It’s Geoffrey, I think.’
Lena shook her head.
‘I recognized him from your description.’
‘It’s over, Griselda. At least for me. I’m not sure about him, I’m afraid. I feel a pig, pig, pig.’
‘You needn’t. I believe I’m grateful to you. Anyway I know very much how you feel. I feel some of it myself. Please don’t feel it any more. It’s quite unnecessary. I do know.’
‘You’re good to me Griselda.’ She looked at the pile of Christmas cards. ‘Shall I stick on stamps?’
Griselda smiled and nodded. Soon Lena’s tongue was inflexible with mucilage.
‘May I stay in the shop?’
‘I can’t do without you.’
XXXIII
Griselda felt more than ever that marriage did not suit her. She supposed that she should have a plan to extricate herself; since resignation, the other possibility, had never suited her either. The trouble was that Kynaston was clearly coming to depend upon her more and more. Worse still, his marriage had enabled him to acquire and develop a variety of social and professional responsibilities and entanglements, which he would be wholly unable to sustain unaided. Griselda found difficulty in deciding how far these were expressions of Kynaston’s personality, previously kept latent by restricted conditions, and how far mere substitute outlets for energy diverted by marriage from true and individual aims. Things were not made easier by Lena’s normal defence mechanism of aggression turning against herself, and manifesting as acute guilty embarrassment, whenever she came into contact with Kynaston. This led to Lena absenting herself from the shop whenever she thought Kynaston might appear; and to Kynaston making sour remarks about Lena whenever opportunity offered. In the end he suggested that he himself might take Lena’s place.
‘I could begin by organizing a display of ballet books. Give the entire shop over to it, I mean.’
‘It wouldn’t be fair on Lena, darling. After all she’s done nothing wrong.’
One day in November Griselda received a letter from Lotus. It was on a large sheet of paper in a large envelope, possibly because Lotus’s handwriting was so large; but the contents were brief. It simply invited Griselda to luncheon at Prunier’s the same day. It was the first she had heard of Lotus since the postcard view of Sfax. Apparently she was now staying at the Grosvenor Hotel.
Lotus was very brown, a little plumper, and even better dressed than usual. But her big green eyes were deep rock pools.
She lightly touched Griselda’s hand, swiftly looked her over, and led the way without speaking to a reserved table.
‘Is it true?’ Her voice seemed to Griselda softer and more stirring than before she left England.
‘Which particular thing?’
‘That Geoffrey loves Lena, of course.’
‘In a way.’
‘The only way?’
The waiter brought Lotus a large menu. Lotus, without consulting Griselda, ordered at length for both of them in rapid convincing French. The waitor, who was a Swede, departed much impressed.
‘Saves misunderstanding,’ said Lotus. ‘But you haven’t answered me.’
‘Is it necessary? You seem to know.’
‘Of course I know. Of course it’s not necessary. Things like that are always true. I knew it inside me. But I wanted to hear you say it. I needed to touch bottom.’ Two very large small drinks arrived.
‘All the same how did you know? Does Geoffrey write to you?’
‘Write to me! He never even thinks of me! Never once since I went away.’
‘Have you been in Sfax all this time?’
‘Sfax failed me.’
‘Where else have you been?’
‘Twice round the world.’
Mussels arrived.
‘I wish I had been once round.’
‘The world’s become very crowded.’ She was consuming mussels with enviable grace and firmness. ‘I’ve been in Johannesburg for the last six weeks. Buying clothes and buying men. Then throwing them away again. I couldn’t go back to Sfax while the hot weather lasted.’