‘You’re right.’
‘Then why go, especially if in doing it you take someone with you? Forgive my putting things crudely, but, except for Dinny, would you be caring a hang about all this business? What other ties have you got here?’
‘None. I don’t want to discuss things. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll branch off.’
Sir Lawrence stopped. ‘Just one moment, and then I’ll do the branching. Have you realized that a man who has a quarrel with himself is not fit to live with until he’s got over it? That’s all I wanted to say; but it’s a good deal. Think it over!’ And, raising his hat, Sir Lawrence turned on his heel. By George! He was well out of that! What an uncomfortable young man! And, after all, one had said all one had come to say! He walked towards Mount Street, reflecting on the limitations imposed by tradition. But for tradition, would Wilfrid mind being thought ‘yellow’? Would Dinny’s family care? Would Lyall have written his confounded poem? Would not the Corporal in the Buffs have kowtowed? Was a single one of the Cherrells, met in conclave, a real believing Christian? Not even Hilary – he would bet his boots! Yet not one of them could stomach this recantation. Not religion, but the refusal to take the ‘dare’! That was the rub to them. The imputation of cowardice, or at least of not caring for the good name of one’s country. Well! About a million British had died for that good name in the war; had they all died for a futility? Desert himself had nearly died for it, and got the M.C., or D.S.O., or something! All very contradictory! People cared for their country in a crowd, it seemed, but not in a desert; in France, but not in Darfur.
He heard hurrying footsteps, and turning round, saw Desert behind him. Sir Lawrence had almost a shock looking at his face, dry, dark, with quivering lips and deep suffering eyes.
‘You were quite right,’ he said; ‘I thought I’d let you know. You can tell her family I’m going away.’
At this complete success of his mission Sir Lawrence experienced dismay.
‘Be careful!’ he said: ‘You might do her a great injury.’
‘I shall do her that, anyway. Thank you for speaking to me. You’ve made me see. Good-bye!’ He turned and was gone.
Sir Lawrence stood looking after him, impressed by his look of suffering. He turned in at his front door doubtful whether he had not made bad worse. While he was putting down his hat and stick, Lady Mont came down the stairs.
‘I’m so bored, Lawrence. What have you been doin’?’
‘Seeing young Desert; and, it seems, I’ve made him feel that until he can live on good terms with himself he won’t be fit to live with at all.’
‘That’s wicked.’
‘How?’
‘He’ll go away. I always knew he’d go away. You must tell Dinny at once what you’ve done.’ And she went to the telephone.
‘Is that you, Fleur?… Oh! Dinny… This is Aunt Em!… Yes… Can you come round here?… Why not?… That’s not a reason… But you must! Lawrence wants to speak to you… At once? Yes. He’s done a very stupid thing… What?… No!… He wants to explain. In ten minutes… very well.’
‘My God!’ thought Sir Lawrence. He had suddenly realized that to deaden feeling on any subject one only needed to sit in conclave. Whenever the Government got into trouble, they appointed a Commission. Whenever a man did something wrong, he went into consultation with solicitor and counsel. If he himself hadn’t been sitting in conclave, would he ever have gone to see Desert and put the fat into the fire like this? The conclave had dulled his feelings. He had gone to Wilfrid as some juryman comes in to return his verdict after sitting in conclave on a case for days. And now he had to put himself right with Dinny, and how the deuce would he do that? He went into his study, conscious that his wife was following.
‘Lawrence, you must tell her exactly what you’ve done, and how he took it. Otherwise it may be too late. And I shall stay until you’ve done it.’
‘Considering, Em, that you don’t know what I said, or what he said, that seems superfluous.’
‘No,’ said Lady Mont, ‘nothing is, when a man’s done wrong.’
‘I was charged to go and see him by your family.’
‘You ought to have had more sense. If you treat poets like innkeepers, they blow up.’
‘On the contrary, he thanked me.’
‘That’s worse. I shall have Dinny’s taxi kept at the door.’
‘Em,’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘when you want to make your will, let me know.’