all right in the end.’
‘You mean, you knew I’d pay?’
‘I’m not ungrateful,’ said Donald angrily.
‘My dear fellow, I don’t want you to be grateful.’
‘But I won’t go and stay in a deserted mausoleum of a Scotch house in the middle of the season. There’s—there’s Bridget.’
‘Lady Carrados’s gel? Is she fond of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘She seems a nice creature. You’re fortunate. Not one of these screeching rattles. She’ll wait for you.’
‘I won’t go.’
‘M’dear boy, I’m sorry, but you’ve no alternative.’
Donald’s face was white but two scarlet patches burned on his cheek-bones. His lips trembled. Suddenly he burst out violently.
‘You can keep your filthy money,’ he shouted. ‘By God, I’ll look after myself. I’ll borrow from someone who’s not a bloody complacent Edwardian relic and I’ll get a job and pay them back as I can.’
‘Jobs aren’t to be had for the asking. Come now—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ bawled Donald and flung out of the room.
Lord Robert stared at the door which his nephew had not neglected to slam. The room was very quiet. The fire settled down with a small whisper of ashes and Lord Robert’s clock ticked on the mantelpiece. It ticked very loudly. The plump figure, only half-lit by the lamp on the desk, was quite still, the head resting on the hand. Lord Robert sighed, a slight mournful sound. At last he pulled an envelope towards him and in his finicky writing addressed it to Captain Withers, Shackleton House, Leatherhead. Then he wrote a short note, folded a cheque into it and put them both in the envelope. He rang for his butler.
‘Has Mr Donald gone out?’
‘Yes, m’lord. He said he would not be returning.’
‘I see,’ said Lord Robert. ‘Thank you. Will you see that this letter is posted immediately?’
Lord Robert had sat on the blue sofa since two-fifteen but he was not tired of it. He enjoyed watching the patrons of music arriving and he amused himself with idle speculations on the subject of intellectual snobbishness. He also explored the blue sofa, sliding his hands cautiously over the surface of the seat and down between the seat and the arms. He had taken the precaution of leaving his gloves on a chair on the left of the sofa and a little behind it. A number of people came and spoke to him, among them Lady Carrados, who was looking tired.
‘You’re overdoing it, Evelyn,’ he told her. ‘You look charming—that’s a delightful gown, ain’t it?—but you’re too fragile, m’dear.’
‘I’m all right, Bunchy,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a nice way of telling a woman she’s getting older.’
‘No, I say! It wasn’t that. Matter of fact it rather suits you bein’ so fine-drawn, but you are too thin, you know. Where’s Bridgie?’
‘At a matinee.’
‘Evelyn, do you know if she sees anything of my nephew?’
‘Donald Potter? Yes. We’ve heard all about it, Bunchy.’
‘He’s written to his mother who no doubt is giving him money. I suppose you know he’s sharing rooms with some other feller?’
‘Yes. Bridgie sees him.’
‘Does Bridgie know where he is?’
‘I think so. She hasn’t told me.’
‘Is she fond of the boy, Evelyn?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘I know. He’s got a lot of charm, but I wish he’d settle down.’
‘Is it botherin’ you much?’
‘That?’ She caught her breath. ‘A little, naturally. Oh, there’s Lady Alleyn! We’re supposed to be together.’
‘Delightful woman, ain’t she? I’m waiting for Mrs Halcut-Hackett.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought her quite your cup of tea, said Lady Carrados vaguely.
Lord Robert made his rabbit-face and winked.
‘We go into mutual raptures over Bach,’ he said.
‘I must join Lady Alleyn. Good-bye, Bunchy.’
‘Good-bye, Evelyn. Don’t worry too much—over anything.’
She gave him a startled look and went away. Lord Robert sat down again. The room was nearly full and in ten minutes the Sirmione Quartette would appear on the modern dais.
‘Is she waiting for the lights to go down?’ wondered Lord Robert. He saw Agatha Troy come in, tried to catch her eye, and failed. People were beginning to settle down in the rows of gilt chairs and in the odd armchairs and sofas round the walls. Lord Robert looked restlessly towards the door and saw Sir Daniel Davidson. Davidson made straight for him. Sir Daniel had once cured Lord Robert’s sister of indigestion and Mildred, who was an emotional woman, had asked him to dinner. Lord Robert had been amused and interested by Davidson. His technique as a fashionable doctor was superb. ‘If Disraeli had taken to medicine instead of primroses,’ Lord Robert had said, ‘he would have been just such another.’ And he had encouraged Davidson to launch out on his favourite subject, The Arts, with rather emphatic capitals. He had capped Davidson’s Latin tags, quoted Congreve against him, and listened with amusement to a preposterous parallel drawn between Rubens and Dürer. ‘The extrovert and the introvert of Art,’ Davidson had cried, waving his beautiful hands, and Lord Robert had twinkled and said: ‘You are talking above my head.’ ‘I’m talking nonsense,’ Davidson had replied abruptly, ‘and you know it.’ But in a minute or two he had been off again as flamboyantly as ever and had left at one o’clock in the morning, very pleased with himself and overflowing with phrases.
‘Ah!’ he said now as he shook hands. ‘I might have guessed I should find you here. Doing the fashionable thing for the unfashionable reason. Music! My God!’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lord Robert.
‘My dear Lord Robert, how many of these people will know what they are listening to, or even listen? Not one in fifty.’
‘Oh, come now!’
‘Not one in fifty! There goes that fellow Withers whose aesthetic appreciation is less than that of a monkey on a barrel-organ. What’s he here for? I repeat, not one in fifty of these humbugs knows what he’s listening to. And how many of the forty-nine have the courage to confess themselves honest philistines?’
‘Quite a number, I should have thought,’ said Lord Robert cheerfully. ‘Myself for one. I’m inclined to go to sleep.’
‘Now, why say that? You know perfectly well—What’s the matter?’
‘Sorry. I was looking at Evelyn Carrados. She looks damn seedy,’ said Lord Robert. Davidson followed his glance to where Lady Carrados sat beside Lady Alleyn. Davidson watched her for a moment and then said quietly:
‘Yes. She’s overdoing it. I shall have to scold her. My seat is somewhere over there, I believe.’ He made an impatient gesture. ‘They all overdo it, these mothers, and the girls overdo it, and the husbands get rattled and the young men neglect their work and then there are half a dozen smart weddings, as many nervous breakdowns and there’s your London season.’
‘Lor’!’