‘That was a good effort, Uncle. I must say I feel more alive here than I have for ages.’
‘Ah! Paris pets the senses. Let’s go in here – too cold to sit out. What’ll you have, tea or – absinthe?’
‘Absinthe.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘All right – tea with lemon.’
Waiting for her tea in the quiet hurly-burly of the Café de la Paix, Dinny watched her Uncle’s thin, bearded form, and thought that he looked quite ‘in his plate,’ but with a queer, interested contentment that identified him with the life around.
To be interested in life and not pet oneself! And she looked about her. Her neighbours were neither remarkable nor demonstrative, but they gave an impression of doing what they liked, not of being on the way to somewhere else.
‘They dig into the moment, don’t they?’ said Adrian suddenly.
‘Yes, I was thinking that.’
‘The French make an art of living. We hope for the future or regret the past. Precious little “present” about the English!’
‘Why are these so different?’
‘Less northern blood, more wine and oil; their heads are rounder than ours, their bodies more stocky, and their eyes are mainly brown.’
‘Those are things we can’t alter, anyway.’
‘The French are essentially the medium people. They’ve brought equilibrium to a high point. Their senses and intellects balance.’
‘But they get fat, Uncle.’
‘Yes, but all over; they don’t jut, and they hold themselves up. I’d rather be English, of course; but if I weren’t, I’d rather be French.’
‘Isn’t there anything in having an itch for something better than you’ve got?’
‘Ah! Ever noticed, Dinny, that when we say “Be good!” they say “Soyez sage!”? There’s a lot in that. I’ve heard Frenchmen put our unease down to the Puritan tradition. But that’s to mistake effect for cause, symptoms for roots. I admit we’ve got an urge towards the promised land, but Puritanism was part of that urge, so’s our wanderlust and colonizing quality; so’s our Protestantism, Scandinavian blood, the sea and the climate. None of that helps us in the art of living. Look at our industrialism, our old maids, cranks, humanitarianisms, poetry! We jut in every direction. We’ve got one or two highly mediumizing institutions – the public schools, ‘cricket’ in its various forms – but as a people we’re chock-full of extremism. The average Briton is naturally exceptional, and underneath his dread of being conspicuous, he’s really proud of it. Where, on earth, will you see more diverse bone formation than in England, and all of it peculiar? We do our level best to be average, but, by George, we jut!’
‘You’re inspired, Uncle.’
‘Well, you look about you when you get home.’
‘I will,’ said Dinny.
They had a good crossing the next day, and Adrian dropped her at Mount Street.
In kissing him good-bye, she squeezed his little finger.
‘You’re done me a tremendous amount of good, Uncle.’
During those six weeks she had scarcely thought at all about Clare’s troubles, and she asked at once for the latest news. A defence had been delivered and issue joined; the case would probably be on in a few weeks.
‘I’ve not seen either Clare or young Croom,’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘but I gathered from Dornford that they go about as before. “Very young” Roger still harps on the need for getting her to speak about her life out there. Lawyers seem to regard the Court as confessional boxes in which to confess the sins of your opponent.’
‘Well, aren’t they?’
‘Judging by the papers, yes.’
‘Well, Clare can’t and won’t. They’ll make a great mistake if they try to force her. Has anything been heard of Jerry?’
‘He must have started, if he’s to be here in time.’
‘Suppose they lose, what is to be done about Tony Croom?’
‘Put yourself in his place, Dinny. Whatever happens, he’ll probably come in for a slating from the judge. He won’t be in a mood to accept favours. If he can’t pay up I don’t quite know what they can do to him; something unpleasant, no doubt. And there’s the question of Jack Muskham’s attitude – he’s queer.’
‘Yes,’ said Dinny under her breath.
Sir Lawrence dropped his monocle.
‘Your Aunt suggests that young Croom should go gold-digging, come back rich, and marry Clare.’
‘But Clare?’
‘Isn’t she in love with him?’