‘It hasn’t been my fault, has it?’
‘Yes; you’ve collected me, as you collect everybody that comes near you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Desert bent down, and dragged her hand to his lips.
‘Don’t be riled with me; I’m too unhappy.’
Fleur let her hand stay against his hot lips.
‘Sorry, Wilfrid.’
‘All right, dear. I’ll go.’
‘But you’re coming to dinner tomorrow?’
Desert said violently:
‘Tomorrow? Good God – no! What d’you think I’m made of?’
He flung her hand away.
‘I don’t like violence, Wilfrid.’
‘Well, good-bye; I’d better go.’
The words ‘And you’d better not come again’ trembled up to her lips, but were not spoken. Part from Wilfrid – life would lose a little warmth! She waved her hand. He was gone. She heard the door closing. Poor Wilfrid? – nice to think of a flame at which to warm her hands! Nice but rather dreadful! And suddenly, dropping Ting-a-ling, she got up and began to walk about the room. Tomorrow! Second anniversary of her wedding-day! Still an ache when she thought of what it had not been. But there was little time to think – and she made less. What good in thinking? Only one life, full of people, of things to do and have, of things wanted – a life only void of – one thing, and that – well, if people had it, they never had it long! On her lids two tears, which had gathered, dried without falling. Sentimentalism! No! The last thing in the world – the unforgivable offence! Whom should she put next whom tomorrow? And whom should she get in place of Wilfrid, if Wilfrid wouldn’t come – silly boy! One day – one night – what difference? Who should sit on her right, and who on her left? Was Aubrey Greene more distinguished, or Sibley Swan? Were they either as distinguished as Walter Nazing or Charles Up-shire? Dinner of twelve, exclusively literary and artistic, except for Michael and Alison Charwell. Ah! Could Alison get her Gurdon Minho – just one writer of the old school, one glass of old wine to mellow effervescence? He didn’t publish with Danby and Winter; but he fed out of Alison’s hand. She went quickly to one of the old tea-chests, and opened it. Inside was a telephone.
‘Can I speak to Lady Alison – Mrs Michael Mont… Yes… That you, Alison?… Fleur speaking. Wilfrid has fallen through tomorrow night… Is there any chance of your bringing Gurdon Minho? I don’t know him, of course; but he might be interested. You’ll try?… That’ll be ever so delightful. Isn’t the “Snooks” Club meeting rather exciting? Bart says they’ll eat each other now they’ve split… About Mr Minho. Could you let me know tonight? Thanks – thanks awfully!… Good-bye!’
Failing Minho, whom? Her mind hovered over the names in her address book. At so late a minute it must be someone who didn’t stand on ceremony; but except Alison, none of Michael’s relations would be safe from Sibley Swan or Nesta Gorse, and their subversive shafts; as to the Forsytes – out of the question; they had their own sub-acid humour (some of them), but they were not modern, not really modern. Besides, she saw as little of them as she could – they dated, belonged to the dramatic period, had no sense of life without beginning or end. No! If Gurdon Minho was a frost, it would have to be a musician, whose works were hieroglyphical with a dash of surgery; or, better, perhaps, a psychoanalyst. Her fingers turned the pages till she came to those two categories. Hugo Solstis? A possibility; but suppose he wanted to play them something recent? There was only Michael’s upright Grand, and that would mean going to his study. Better Gerald Hanks – he and Nesta Gorse would get off together on dreams; still, if they did, there would be no actual loss of life. Yes, failing Gurdon Minho, Gerald Hanks; he would be free – and put him between Alison and Nesta. She closed the book, and, going back to her jade-green settee, sat gazing at Ting-a-ling. The little dog’s prominent round eyes gazed back; bright, black, very old. Fleur thought: ‘I don’t want Wilfrid to drop off.’ Among all the crowd who came and went, here, there and everywhere, she cared for nobody. Keep up with them, keep up with everything, of course! It was all frightfully amusing, frightfully necessary! Only – only – what?
Voices! Michael and Bart coming back. Bart had noticed Wilfrid. He was a noticing old Bart. She was never very comfortable when he was about – living and twisting, but with something settled and ancestral in him; a little like Ting-a-ling – something judgematic, ever telling her that she was fluttering and new. He was anchored, could only move to the length of his old-fashioned cord, but he could drop on to things disconcertingly. Still, he admired her, she felt – oh! yes.