Jack was now being attentive to the old man, Iris’s father. Though this was none of Mr. Cordier’s business, Jack said, “My wife and I are first cousins, as well as second cousins twice over.”
“You don’t look it.”
Everyone began to speak at once, and it was a minute or two before Netta heard Jack again. This time he said, “We are from a family of great.…” It was lost. What now? Great innkeepers? Worriers? Skinflints? Whatever it was, old Mr. Cordier kept nodding to show he approved,
“We don’t see nearly enough of young men like you,” he said.
“True!” said Iris loudly. “We live in a dreary world of ill women down here.” Netta thought this hard on the American, on Mr. Cordier, and on the male Braunsweg twin, but none of them looked offended. “I’ve got no time for women,” said Iris. She slapped down a glass of whiskey so that it splashed, and rapped on a table with her knuckles. “Shall I tell you why? Because women don’t tick over. They just simply don’t tick over.” No one disputed this. Iris went on: Women were under-informed. One could have virile conversations only with men. Women were attached to the past through fear, whereas men had a fearless sense of history. “Men tick,” she said, glaring at Jack.
“I am not attached to a past,” said Netta, slowly. “The past holds no attractions.” She was not used to general conversation. She thought that every word called for consideration and for an answer. “Nothing could be worse than the way we children were dressed. And our mothers — the hard waves of their hair, the white lips. I think of those pale profiles and I wonder if those women were ever young.”
Poor Netta, who saw herself as profoundly English, spread onsternation by being suddenly foreign and gassy. She talked the English of expatriate children, as if reading aloud. The twins looked shocked. But she had appealed to the American, He sat beside her on a scuffed velvet sofa. He was so large that she slid an inch or so in his direction when he sat down. He was Sandra Braunsweg’s special friend: they had been in London together. He was trying to write.
“What do you mean?” said Netta. “Write what?”
“Well — a novel, to start,” he said. His father had staked him to one year, then another. He mentioned all that Sandra had borne with, how she had actually kicked and punched him to keep him from being too American. He had embarrassed her to death in London by asking a waitress, “Miss, where’s the toilet?”
Netta said, “Didn’t you mind being corrected?”
“Oh, no. It was just friendly.”
Jack meanwhile was listening to Sandra telling about her English forebears and her English education. “I had many years of undeniably excellent schooling,” she said. “Mitten Todd.”
“What’s that?” said Jack.
“It’s near Bristol. I met excellent girls from Italy, Spain. I took him there to visit,” she said, generously including the American. “I said, ‘Get a yellow necktie.’ He went straight out and bought one. I wore a little Schiaparelli. Bought in Geneva but still a real … A yellow jacket over a gray … Well, we arrived at my excellent old school, and even though the day was drizzly I said, ‘Put the top of the car back.’ He did so at once, and then he understood. The interior of the car harmonized perfectly with the yellow and gray.” The twins were orphaned. Iris was like a mother.
“When Mummy died we didn’t know where to put all the Chippendale,” said Sandra, “Iris took a lot of it.”
Netta thought, She is so silly. How can he respond? The girl’s dimples and freckles and soft little hands were nothing Netta could have ever described: she had never in her life thought a word like “pretty.” People were beautiful or they were not. Her happiness had always been great enough to allow for despair. She knew that some people thought Jack was happy and she was not.
“And what made you marry your young cousin?” the old man boomed at Netta. Perhaps his background allowed him to ask impertinent questions; he must have been doing so nearly forever. He stroked his cat; he was confident. He was spokesman for a roomful of wondering people.
“Jack was a moody child and I promised his mother I would look after him,” said Netta. In her hopelessly un-English way she believed she had said something funny.
At eleven o’clock the hotel car expected to fetch the Rosses was nowhere. They trudged home by moonlight. For the last hour of the evening Jack had been skewered on virile conversations, first with Iris, then with Sandra, to whom Netta had already given “Chippendale” as a private name. It proved that Iris was right about concentrating on men and their ticking — Jack even thought Sandra rather pretty.
“Prettier than me?” said Netta, without the faintest idea what she meant, but aware she had said something stupid.
“Not so attractive,” said Jack. His slight limp returned straight out of childhood. She had caused his accident.
“But she’s not always clear,” said Netta. “Mitten Todd, for example.”
“Who’re you talking about?”
“Who are you?”
“Iris, of course.”
As if they had suddenly quarrelled they fell silent. In silence they entered their room and prepared for bed. Jack poured a whiskey, walked on the clothes he had dropped, carried his drink to the bathroom. Through the half-shut door he called suddenly, “Why did you say that asinine thing about promising to look after me?”
“It seemed so unlikely, I thought they’d laugh.” She had a glimpse of herself in the mirrors picking up his shed clothes.
He said, “Well, is it true?”
She was quiet for such a long time that he came to see if she was still in the room. She said, “No, your mother never said that or anything like it.”
“We shouldn’t have gone to Roquebrune,” said Jack. “I think those bloody people are going to be a nuisance. Iris wants her father to stay here, with the cat, while she goes to England for a month. How do we get out of that?”
“By saying no.”
“I’m rotten at no.”
“I told you not to be too pally with women,” she said, as a joke again, but jokes were her way of having floods of tears.
Before this had a chance to heal, Iris’s father moved in, bringing his cat in a basket. He looked at his room and said, “Medium large.” He looked at his bed and said, “Reasonably long.” He was, in short, daft about measurements. When he took books out of the reading room, he was apt to return them with “This volume contains about 70,000 words” written inside the back cover.
Netta had not wanted Iris’s father, but Jack had said yes to it. She had not wanted the sick cat, but Jack had said yes to that too. The old man, who was lost without Iris, lived for his meals. He would appear at the shut doors of the dining room an hour too early, waiting for the menu to be typed and posted. In a voice that matched Iris’s for carrying power, he read aloud, alone: “Consommé. Good Lord, again? Is there a choice between the fish and the cutlet? I can’t possibly eat all of that. A bit of salad and a boiled egg. That’s all I could possibly want.” That was rubbish, because Mr. Cordier ate the menu and more, and if there were two puddings, or a pudding and ice cream, he ate both and asked for pastry, fruit, and cheese to follow. One day, after Dr. Blackley had attended him for faintness, Netta passed a message on to Iris, who had been back from England for a fortnight now but seemed in no hurry to take her father away.