He seemed to hunch himself together.
‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then you know.’
Yes, she knew!
‘It’s absolute torture not to be with her, able to see that she’s all right. She takes it all lightly, but I can’t.’
Takes it all lightly! Clare’s face looking at her! She did not answer.
‘The fact is,’ said young Croom, with incoherence, ‘people can say and think what they like, but if they felt as I feel, they simply couldn’t. I won’t bother her, I really won’t; but I can’t stand her being in danger from that man.’
Dinny controlled herself to say quietly: ‘I don’t think Clare’s in any danger. But she might be if it were known that you –’ He met her eyes squarely.
‘I’m glad she’s got you. For God’s sake look after her, Miss Cherrell.’
They had reached the corner of Mount Street, and she held out her hand.
‘You may be certain that whatever Clare does I shall stick by her. Good night! And cheer up!’
He wrung her hand, and went off as if the devil were after him. Dinny went in, and slid the bolts quietly.
On what thin ice! She could hardly drag one foot before the other as she went upstairs, and sank down on her bed exhausted.
Chapter Eleven
WHEN Sir Lawrence Mont reached Burton’s Club the following afternoon he was feeling, in common with many who undertake to interfere in the affairs of others, as uneasy self-importance coupled with a desire to be somewhere else. He did not know what the deuce he was going to say to Corven, or why the deuce he should say it, since, in his opinion, by far the best solution would be for Clare to give her marriage another trial. Having discovered from the porter that Sir Gerald was in the Club, he poked his nose gingerly into three rooms before locating the back of his quarry seated in the corner of an apartment too small to be devoted to anything but writing. He sat down at a table close to the door, so that he could simulate surprise when Corven came up to leave the room. The fellow was an unconscionable time. Noting a copy of the British Statesman’s vade-mecum beside him, he began idly looking up the figures of British imports. He found potatoes: consumption sixty-six million five hundred thousand tons, production eight million eight hundred and seventy-four thousand tons! Somebody the other day had written to say that we imported forty million pounds’ worth of bacon every year. Taking a sheet of paper he wrote: ‘Prohibition and protection, in regard to food that we can produce here. Annual Imports: Pigs, £40,000,000; Poultry say, £12,000,000; Potatoes – God knows how much! All this bacon, all these eggs, and half these potatoes could be produced here. Why not a five-year plan? By prohibition lessen the import of bacon and eggs one-fifth every year, and the import of potatoes by one-tenth every year, increasing home production gradually to replace them. At the end of five years our bacon and eggs and half our potatoes would be all-British. We should save eighty millions on our Imports Bill and our trade would practically be balanced.’
Taking another sheet of paper, he wrote:
‘To the Editor of The Times.
‘The Three P. Plan.
‘SIR –
‘A simple plan for the balancing of our trade would seem to merit the attention of all those not wedded to the longest way round. There are three articles of food on importing which we expend annually some —— pounds, but which could be produced in our own country without, I venture to think, causing the price of living to rise to any material extent if we took the simple precaution of hanging a profiteer at the beginning. These articles are Pigs, Poultry, Potatoes. There would be no need to put on duties, for all that is required is –’
But at this moment, becoming aware that Corven was passing from the room, he said:
‘Hello!’
Corven turned and came towards him.
Hoping that he showed as little sign of embarrassment as his nephew twice removed by marriage, Sir Lawrence rose.
‘Sorry I didn’t see you when you called the other day. Have you got long leave?’
‘Another week only, and then I shall have to fly the Mediterranean probably.’
‘Not a good month for flying. What do you think of this adverse balance of trade?’
Jerry Corven shrugged.
‘Something to keep them busy for a bit. They never see two inches before their noses.’
‘ “Tiens! Une montagne!” Remember the Caran d’Ache cartoon of Buller in front of Ladysmith? No, you wouldn’t. It’s thirty-two years ago. National character doesn’t change much, does it? How’s Ceylon? Not in love with India, I hope?’