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"Yes, I would . . . Yes, it is. . . . Remember there's nothing[Pg 311] about men I don't know. You look so young: you can't know very much. Perhaps I can help you."
But Mrs. Martin was a woman of one idea at a time. "If you doubt my character, Miss, please speak to Miss Platt about it, and if she has a complaint well and good and I'll take her word for it, she having known me a good deal longer than many people and not one to rush to conclusions as some are perhaps with justice and perhaps not."
Lady Alicia laughed.
Henry did what he could for his room, he was proud of it, felt very kindly towards it and wanted to clothe it with beauty. It is difficult, however, to make a room beautiful unless the wall-paper and the carpet contribute something. Henry had a nice writing-table that his Uncle Timothy had given him, a gate-legged table from his sister Katherine and a fine Regency bookcase stolen by him from his Westminster home. He had three pictures, a Japanese print, a copy of Mr. Belcher's drawing of Pat O'Keefe, "The Wild Irishman," and a little water-colour by Lovat Frazer of a king and queen marching into a banquet-hall and attended by their courtiers. This last, splendid in gold and blue, green and red was the joy of Henry's heart and had been given him by his sister Millicent on his last birthday.
There was a long silence.
"What's the matter with Mrs. Martin?" said Victoria, coming through into the inner room. "She seems to be upset about something."
Millie shivered. "Never mind about me, Victoria. Things aren't easy. He won't tell me the truth. I could stand anything if only he wouldn't lie to me. I ought to leave him, I supposegive him up. But I love himI love him so terribly."
"Thank you," said Peter.
As the old butler brought in the coffee at this moment she stopped and began hurriedly to talk about Conan Doyle's sances which seemed to her very peculiarthe pity of it was that we couldn't really tell if it had happened just as he said. "Of course he's been writing stories for years," she said. "He's the author of those detectives stories, Aliciaand writing stories for a long time must make one very regardless of the truth."
Millie was deeply touched. "Of course I will," she said, "if I can. And you really think I can? I'm terribly ignorant and inexperienced."
He stammered, laughed and said nothing.
"She has another placesomewhere in Victoria Street. Often she is away all night."
"Good heavens!" he said. "A girl!"
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He had lovedyes. First his mother, then his sister Katherine, then his sister Millicent, then his friend Westcott. These affections had been loyal and true and profound but they had been of the heart and the brain, and for true love the lust of the flesh must be added to the lust of the mind and the heart.
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"But you can have all that," Millie cried. "The Major's a good man and he does care for you, and he'd want to marry you even though you hadn't a penny. I know he seems a little dull, but we can put up with people's dullness if their heart's right. It seems to me just now," she said, staring away across the little sunlit room, "that nothing matters in a man beside his honesty and his good heart. If you can't trust"
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She seemed to have shed all her married life, her home with Philip, her bearing of children to him, her love for him, her love for them all. She was the daughter again, in an agony of repentance and self-abasement. Was the victory after all to Mrs. Trenchard?
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"You're secretary to some old Johnny, aren't you?" asked Baxter.
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Silence.
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"Would you mind," the voice broke through like a stone smashing a pane of glass. "But your boot is"
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[Pg 248]
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"Meanwhile," Millie said, "she's been robbing you right and left. You know she has, Victoria. You as good as admitted it to me the other day. Of course if you want to go on being plundered, Victoria, it's no affair of mine. Only tell me so, and I shall know where I am."
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What he did hear, however, was the opening of the library door, and what he beheld was Tom Duncombe's bulky figure standing for a moment hesitating in the doorway. He came forward but did not see Henry immediately. He stood again, listening, one finger to his lip like a schoolboy about to steal jam. Henry bent his head over his letters, but with one eye watched. All thoughts of love and tenderness were gone with that entrance. He hated Tom Duncombe and hated him for reasons more conclusive than personal, wounded vanity. Duncombe took some further steps and then suddenly saw Henry. He stopped dead, staring, then as Henry did not turn, but stayed with head bent forward, he moved on again still cautiously and with the clumsy hesitating, step that was especially his.
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"Quite. A very able fellow. He should go far."
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Some way up Wardour Street on the left as you go towards Oxford Street there is a public house with the happy country sign of the Intrepid Fox. No one knows how long the Intrepid Fox has charmed the inhabitants of Wardour Street into its dark and intricate recessesTom Jones may have known it and Pamela passed by it and Humphrey Clinker laughed in its doorwayno one now dare tell you and no history book records its name. Only Henry will never until he dies forget it and for him it will always be one of the most romantic buildings in the world.
"Must have been in my sleep then," said Henry yawning, then suddenly conscious of his shabby and faded pyjamas.
The effect of this outburst was astonishing. Light-Johnson turned round and stared at Henry as though he were a small Pom that had hitherto reposed peacefully under the table but[Pg 96] had suddenly woken up and bitten his leg. He smiled, his first smile of the day.
"Why do you always behave like a complete idiot when you're with me?" she asked. "You're not an idiotknow you're not from what Duncombe has told mealways behave like one with me."
Nevertheless it may be suspected that she liked Henry more than she allowed; only her fingers itched to be at him, at his collar and his socks and his boots and his tie. But she believed about this, as she did about everything else, that her day would come.
"And what are you doing for yourself?"
"Oh, they've got a place down in Devonshire somewhere."