‘No.’
‘Never met him?’
‘No sir.’
‘When did you first meet Clare?’
‘On the second day of the voyage home.’
‘What were you doing out there?’
‘Tea-planting; but they amalgamated my plantation with some others, for economy.’
‘I see. Where were you at school?’
‘Wellington, and then at Cambridge.’
‘You’ve got a job with Jack Muskham?’
‘Yes, sir, his Arab mares. They’re due in the spring.’
‘You know about horses, then?’
‘Yes. I’m terribly fond of them.’
Dinny saw the narrowed gaze withdraw from the young man’s face, and come to rest on hers.
‘You know my daughter Dinny, I think?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll leave you to her now. I want to think this over.’
The young man bowed slightly, turned to Dinny, and then, turning back, said with a certain dignity:
‘I’m awfully sorry, sir, about this; but I can’t say I’m sorry that I’m in love with Clare. It wouldn’t be true. I love her terribly.’
He was moving towards the door, when the General said:
‘One moment. What do you mean by love?’
Involuntarily Dinny clasped her hands: An appalling question! Young Croom turned round. His face was motionless.
‘I know what you mean, sir,’ he said huskily: ‘Desire and that, or more? Well! More, or I couldn’t have stood that night in the car.’ He turned again to the door.
Dinny moved and held it open for him. She followed him into the hall, where he was frowning and taking deep breaths. She slipped her hand through his arm and moved him across to the wood fire. They stood, looking down into the flames, till she said:
‘I’m afraid that was rather dreadful. But soldiers like to have things straight out, you know. Anyway – I know my father – you made what’s called a good impression.’
‘I felt a ghastly kind of wooden idiot. Where is Clare? Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see her, Miss Cherrell?’
‘Try calling me Dinny. You can see her; but I think you’d better see my mother too. Let’s go to the drawing-room.’
He gave her hand a squeeze.
‘I’ve always felt you were a brick.’
Dinny grimaced. ‘Even bricks yield to a certain pressure.’
‘Oh! sorry! I’m always forgetting my ghastly grip. Clare dreads it. How is she?’
With a faint shrug and smile, Dinny said:
‘Doing as well as can be expected.’
Tony Croom clutched his head.
‘Yes, I feel exactly like that, only worse; in those cases there’s something to look forward to and – here? D’you think she’ll ever really love me?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You people don’t think that I pursued her – I mean, you know what I mean, just to have a good time?’
‘They won’t after today. You are what I was once called – transparent.’
‘You? I never quite know what you’re thinking.’
‘That was a long time ago. Come!’
Chapter Twenty-two
WHEN young Croom had withdrawn into the sleet and wind of that discomforting day, he left behind him a marked gloom. Clare went to her room saying her head was bad and she was going to lie down. The other three sat among the tea-things, speaking only to the dogs, sure sign of mental disturbance.
At last Dinny got up: ‘Well, my dears, gloom doesn’t help. Let’s look on the bright side. They might have been scarlet instead of white as snow.’
The General said, more to himself than in reply:
‘They must defend. That fellow can’t have it all his own way.’
‘But Dad, to have Clare free, with a perfectly clear conscience, would be nice and ironic, and ever so much less fuss!’
‘Lie down under an accusation of that sort?’
‘Her name will go even if she wins. No one can spend a night in a car with a young man with impunity. Can they, Mother?’
Lady Charwell smiled faintly.
‘I agree with your father, Dinny. It seems to me revolting that Clare should be divorced when she’s done nothing except been a little foolish. Besides, it would be cheating the law, wouldn’t it?’
‘I shouldn’t think the law would care, dear. However – !’ And Dinny was silent, scrutinizing their rueful faces, aware that they set some mysterious store by marriage and divorce which she did not, and that nothing she could say would alter it.
‘The young man,’ said the General, ‘seemed a decent fellow, I thought. He’ll have to come up and see the lawyers when we do.’
‘I’d better go up with Clare tomorrow evening, Dad, and get Uncle Lawrence to arrange you a meeting with the lawyers for after lunch on Monday. I’ll telephone you and Tony Croom from Mount Street in the morning.’