But the ‘Squire’ continued to smoke his pipe. His experience of Committees told him that the time was not yet. Separate or ‘knot’ discussions would now set in. They led nowhere, of course, but ministered to a general sense that the subject was having justice done to it.
Jack Muskham sat silent, his long face impassive and his long legs stretched out. The discussion continued.
‘Well?’ said the member who had revisited Mexico, at last.
The ‘Squire’ tapped out his pipe.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that Mr Desert should be asked to give us his reasons for publishing that poem.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said the K.C.
‘Quite!’ said the two members who had said it before.
‘I agree,’ said the authority on Ceylon.
‘Anybody against that?’ said the ‘Squire’.
‘I don’t see the use of it,’ muttered Jack Muskham. ‘He ratted, and he’s confessed it.’
No one else objecting, the ‘Squire’ continued:
‘The Secretary will ask him to see us and explain. There’s no other business, gentlemen.’
In spite of the general understanding that the matter was sub judice, these proceedings were confided to Sir Lawrence before the day was out by three members of the Committee, including Jack Muskham. He took the knowledge out with him to dinner at South Street.
Since the publication of the poems and Compson Grice’s letter, Michael and Fleur had talked of little else, forced to by the comments and questionings of practically every acquaintance. They differed radically. Michael, originally averse to publication of the poem, now that it was out, stoutly defended the honesty and courage of Wilfrid’s avowal. Fleur could not forgive what she called the ‘stupidity of the whole thing’. If he had only kept quiet and not indulged his conscience or his pride, the matter would have blown over, leaving practically no mark. It was, she said, unfair to Dinny, and unnecessary so far as Wilfrid himself was concerned; but of course he had always been like that. She had not forgotten the uncompromising way in which eight years ago he had asked her to become his mistress, and the still more uncompromising way in which he had fled from her when she had not complied. When Sir Lawrence told them of the meeting at Burton’s, she said simply:
‘Well, what could he expect?’
Michael muttered:
‘Why is Jack Muskham so bitter?’
‘Some dogs attack each other at sight. Others come to it more meditatively. This appears to be a case of both. I should say Dinny is the bone.’
Fleur laughed.
‘Jack Muskham and Dinny!’
‘Sub-consciously, my dear. The workings of a misogynist’s mind are not for us to pry into, except in Vienna. They can tell you everything there; even to the origin of hiccoughs.’
‘I doubt if Wilfrid will go before the Committee,’ said Michael, gloomily. Fleur confirmed him.
‘Of course he won’t, Michael.’
‘Then what will happen?’
‘Almost certainly he’ll be expelled under rule whatever it is.’
Michael shrugged. ‘He won’t care. What’s a Club more or less?’
‘No,’ said Fleur; ‘but at present the thing is in flux – people just talk about it; but expulsion from his Club will be definite condemnation. It’s just what’s wanted to make opinion line up against him.’
‘And for him.’
‘Oh! for him, yes; but we know what that amounts to – the disgruntled.’
‘That’s all beside the point,’ said Michael gruffly. ‘I know what he’s feeling: his first instinct was to defy that Arab, and he bitterly regrets that he went back on it.’
Sir Lawrence nodded.
‘Dinny asked me if there was anything he could do to show publicly that he wasn’t a coward. You’d think there might be, but it’s not easy. People object to being put into positions of extreme danger in order that their rescuers may get into the papers. Van horses seldom run away in Piccadilly. He might throw someone off Westminster Bridge, and jump in after him; but that would merely be murder and suicide. Curious that, with all the heroism there is about, it should be so difficult to be deliberately heroic.’
‘He ought to face the Committee,’ said Michael; ‘and I hope he will. There’s something he told me. It sounds silly; but, knowing Wilfrid, one can see it made all the difference.’
Fleur had planted her elbows on the polished table and her chin on her hands. So, leaning forward, she looked like the girl contemplating a china image in her father’s picture by Alfred Stevens.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What is it?’