The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3(22)
‘Did you win, Lord Saxenden?’
‘No; and I never paid your uncle.’
‘Why not?’
‘He sprained his ankle and I put my knee out. He hopped to the Gym door; but I couldn’t move. We were both laid up till the end of term, and then I left.’ Lord Saxenden chuckled. ‘So I still owe him three strawberry mashes.’
‘I thought we had “some” breakfast in America, but it’s nil to this,’ said Hallorsen, sitting down.
‘Do you know Lord Saxenden?’
‘Lord Saxenden,’ repeated Hallorsen with a bow.
‘How de do? You haven’t got our partridge in America, have you?’
‘Why, no, I believe not. I am looking forward to hunting that bird. This is mighty fine coffee, Miss Cherrell.’
‘Yes,’ said Dinny, ‘Aunt Em prides herself on her coffee.’
Lord Saxenden squared his seat. ‘Try this ham. I haven’t read your book.’
‘Let me send it you; I’ll be proud to have you read it.’
Lord Saxenden ate on.
‘Yes, you ought to read it, Lord Saxenden,’ said Dinny; ‘and I’ll send you another book that bears on the same subject.’
Lord Saxenden glared.
‘Charming of you both,’ he said. ‘Is that strawberry jam?’ and he reached for it.
‘Miss Cherrell,’ said Hallorsen, in a low voice, ‘I’d like to have you go through my book and mark the passages you think are prejudicial to your brother. I wrote that book when I had a pretty sore head.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t see what good that would do now.’
‘So I could get them cut out, if you wish, for the second edition.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ said Dinny, icily, ‘but the harm is done, Professor.’
Hallorsen said, still lower: ‘I’m just terribly sorry to have hurt you.’
A sensation, perhaps only to be summed up in the words: ‘You are – are you!’ flushed Dinny from top to toe with anger, triumph, calculation, humour.
‘It’s my brother you’ve hurt.’
‘Maybe that could be mended if we could get together about it.’
‘I wonder.’ And Dinny rose.
Hallorsen stood up too, and bowed as she passed.
‘Terribly polite,’ she thought.
She spent her morning with the diary in a part of the garden so sunk within yew hedges that it formed a perfect refuge. The sun was warm there, and the humming of the bees over zinnias, pentstemons, hollyhocks, asters, Michaelmas daisies, was very soothing. In that so sheltered garden the dislike of casting Hubert’s intimate feelings to the world’s opinion came on her again. Not that the diary whined; but it revealed the hurts of mind and body with the sharpness of a record meant for no eye but the recorder’s. The sound of shots kept floating to her; and presently, leaning her elbows on the top of the yew hedge, she looked out over the fields towards where they were shooting.
A voice said:
‘There you are!’
Her aunt, in a straw hat so broad that it covered her to the very edges of her shoulders, was standing below with two gardeners behind her.
‘I’m coming round to you, Dinny; Boswell, you and Johnson can go now. We’ll look at the portulaca this afternoon.’ And she gazed up from under the tilted and enormous halo of her hat. ‘It’s Majorcan,’ she said, ‘so shelterin’.’
‘Boswell and Johnson, Auntie!’
‘We had Boswell, and your uncle would look till we found Johnson. He makes them go about together. Do you believe in Doctor Johnson, Dinny?’
‘I think he used the word “Sir” too much.’
‘Fleur’s got my gardenin’ scissors. What’s that, Dinny?’
‘Hubert’s diary.’
‘Depressin’?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been lookin’ at Professor Hallorsen – he wants takin’ in.’
‘Begin with his cheek, Aunt Em.’
‘I hope they’ll shoot some hares,’ said Lady Mont; ‘hare soup is such a stand-by. Wilmet and Henrietta Bentworth have agreed to differ already.’
‘What about?’
‘Well, I couldn’t be bothered, but I think it was about the P.M., or was it Portulaca? – they differ about everything. Hen’s always been about Court, you know.’
‘Is that fatal?’
‘She’s a nice woman. I’m fond of Hen, but she does cluck. What are you doin’ with that diary?’
‘I’m going to show it to Michael and ask his advice.’
‘Don’t take it,’ said Lady Mont; ‘he’s a dear boy, but don’t take it; he knows a lot of funny people – publishers and that.’