‘Why?’
‘He’s looking for a house. I’ve an idea he’d like to marry.’
‘Oh! Whom?’
George closed an eye.
‘You mean my sister?’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes. But I don’t see how you know.’
George closed the other eye.
‘A little bird, Lady Corven.’
‘He might do worse, certainly. Not that I’m a great believer in marriage.’
‘We don’t see the right side of marriage in the Law. But Mr Dornford would make a woman happy – in my opinion.’
‘In mine, too, George.’
‘He’s a very quiet man, but a fund of energy, and considerate. Solicitors like him; judges like him.’
‘And wives will like him.’
‘Of course he’s a Catholic.’
‘We all have to be something.’
‘Mrs Calder and I’ve been Anglicans ever since my old dad died. He was a Plymouth Brother – very stiff. Express an opinion of your own, and he’d jump down your throat. Many’s the time I’ve had him threaten me with fire and slaughter. All for my good, you understand. A fine religious old feller. And couldn’t bear others not to be. Good red Zummerzet blood, and never forgot it, though he did live in Peckham.’
‘Well, George, if Mr Dornford wants me again after all, would you telephone me at five o’clock? I’ll look in at my rooms in case.’
Clare walked. The day was even more springlike than yesterday. She went by the Embankment and St James’s Park. Alongside the water, clusters of daffodil spikes were pushing up, and tree-shoots swelling into bud. The gentle, warming sunlight fell on her back. It couldn’t last! There would be a throwback to winter, for sure! She walked fast out under the chariot, whose horses, not too natural, worried but exhilarated her, passed the Artillery Memorial without a glance, and entered Hyde Park. Warmed up now, she swung out along the Row. Riding was something of a passion with her, so that it always made her restive to see someone else riding a good horse. Queer animals, horses, so fiery and alive at one moment, so dull and ruminative the next!
Two or three hats were raised to her. A long man on a good-looking mare reined up after he had passed and came back.
‘I thought it was you. Lawrence told me you were over. Remember me – Jack Muskham?’
Clare – thinking: ‘Lovely seat for a tall man!’ – murmured: ‘Of course!’ and was suddenly on her guard.
‘An acquaintance of yours is going to look after my Arab mares.’
‘Oh! yes, Tony Croom.’
‘Nice young chap, but I don’t know if he knows enough. Still, he’s keen as mustard. How’s your sister?’
‘Very well.’
‘You ought to bring her racing, Lady Corven.’
‘I don’t think Dinny cares much for horses.’
‘I could soon make her. I remember –’ he broke off, frowning. In spite of his languid pose, his face seemed to Clare purposeful, brown, lined, ironic about the lips. She wondered how he would take the news that she had spent last night with Tony in a car.
‘When do the mares come, Mr Muskham?’
‘They’re in Egypt now. We’ll ship them in April. I might go over for it; possibly take young Croom.’
‘I’d love to see them,’ said Clare; ‘I rode an Arab in Ceylon.’
‘We must get you down.’
‘Somewhere near Oxford, isn’t it?’
‘About six miles; nice country. I’ll remember. Good-bye!’ He raised his hat, touched the mare with his heel, and cantered off.
‘My perfect innocence!’ she thought. ‘Hope I didn’t overdo it. I wouldn’t like to “get wrong” with him. He looks as if he knew his mind terribly well. Lovely boots! He didn’t ask after Jerry!’
Her nerves felt a little shaken, and she struck away from the Row towards the Serpentine.
The sunlit water had no boats on it, but a few ducks on the far side. Did she mind what people thought? Miller of Dee! Only, did he really care for nobody? Or was he just a philosopher? She sat down on a bench in the full sunlight, and suddenly felt sleepy. A night in a car, after all, was not quite the same as a night out of a car. Crossing her arms on her breast, she closed her eyes. Almost at once she was asleep.
Quite a number of people straggled past between her and the bright water, surprised to see one in such nice clothes asleep before lunch. Two little boys carrying toy aeroplanes stopped dead, examining her dark eyelashes resting on her cream-coloured cheeks, and the little twitchings of her just touched-up lips. Having a French governess, they were ‘well-bred’ little boys without prospect of sticking pins into her or uttering a sudden whoop. But she seemed to have no hands, her feet were crossed and tucked under her chair, and her attitude was such that she had abnormally long thighs. It was interesting; and after they had passed one of them kept turning his head to see more of her.