‘I have an uncle by marriage who belongs – Sir Lawrence Mont, tall and twisty and thin; you’ll know him by a tortoise-shell-rimmed eyeglass.’
‘I’ll look out for him.’
‘What are you going to do with yourself in England?’
‘Hunt a job. That’s more than one man’s work, it seems.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘Anything except schoolmastering and selling things on commission.’
‘But does anybody ever get anything else nowadays?’
‘No. It’s a bad look-out. What I’d like would be an estate agency, or something to do with horses.’
‘Estates and horses are both dying out.’
‘I know one or two racing men rather well. But I expect I shall end as a chauffeur. Where are you going to stay?’
‘With my people. At first, anyway. If you still want to see me when you’ve been home a week, Condaford Grange, Oxfordshire, will find me.’
‘Why did I ever meet you?’ said the young man, with sudden gloom.
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh! you know what I mean. God! she’s casting anchor. Here’s the tender! Oh! Clare!’
‘Sir?’
‘Hasn’t it meant anything to you?’
Clare looked at him steadily before answering.
‘Yes. But I don’t know if it will ever mean any more. If it doesn’t, thank you for helping me over a bad three weeks.’
The young man stood silent, as only those can be silent whose feelings are raging for expression….
The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy: the building of a house, the writing of a novel, the demolition of a bridge, and, eminently, the finish of a voyage. Clare landed from the tender in the usual hurly-burly, and, still attended by young Croom, came to rest in the arms of her sister.
‘Dinny! How sweet of you to face this bally-hooley! My sister, Dinny Cherrell – Tony Croom. I shall be all right now, Tony. Go and look after your own things.’
‘I’ve got Fleur’s car,’ said Dinny. ‘What about your trunks?’
‘They’re booked through to Condaford.’
‘Then we can go straight off.’
The young man, going with them to the car, said ‘Good-bye’ with a jauntiness which deceived no one; and the car slid away from the dock.
Side by side the sisters looked at each other, a long and affectionate scrutiny; and their hands lay, squeezed together, on the rug.
‘Well, ducky!’ said Dinny, at last. ‘Lovely to see you! Am I wrong to read between the lines?’
‘No. I’m not going back to him, Dinny.’
‘No, never, non?’
‘No, never, non!’
‘Oh! dear! Poor darling!’
‘I won’t go into it, but it became impossible.’ Clare was silent, then added suddenly, with a toss back of her head: ‘Quite impossible!’
‘Did he consent to your coming?’
Clare shook her head. ‘I slipped off. He was away. I wirelessed him, and wrote from Suez.’
There was another silence. Then Dinny squeezed her hand and said:
‘I was always afraid of it.’
‘The worst of it is I haven’t a penny. Is there anything in hats now, Dinny?’
‘ “All British” hats – I wonder.’
‘Or, perhaps, I could breed dogs – bull terriers; what d’you think?’
‘I don’t at present. We’ll inquire.’
‘How are things at Condaford?’
‘We rub on. Jean has gone out to Hubert again, but the baby’s there – just a year old now. Cuthbert Conway Cherrell. I suppose we shall call him “Cuffs.” He’s rather a duck.’
‘Thank God I haven’t that complication! Certain things have their advantages.’ Her face had the hardness of a face on a coin.
‘Have you had any word from him?’
‘No, but I shall, when he realizes that I mean it.’
‘Was there another woman?’
Clare shrugged.
Again Dinny’s hand closed on hers.
‘I’m not going to make a song of my affairs, Dinny.’
‘Is he likely to come home about it?’
‘I don’t know. I won’t see him if he does.’
‘But, darling, you’ll be hopelessly hung up.’
‘Oh! Don’t let’s bother about me. How have you been?’ And she looked critically at her sister: ‘You look more Botticellian than ever.’
‘I’ve become an adept at skimping. Also, I’ve gone in for bees.’
‘Do they pay?’
‘Not at present. But on a ton of honey we could make about seventy pounds.’
‘How much honey did you have this year?’