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II
The pudding was burnt. Christow raised his eyebrows over it and Gerda hurried into apologies.
“I’m sorry, dear. I can’t think why that should happen. It’s my fault. Give me the top and you
take the underneath.”
The pudding was burnt because he, John Christow, had stayed sitting in his consulting room for
a quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs. Crabtree and letting
ridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic of
Gerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why did
she always have to make a martyr of herself? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interested
way? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damned
irritating?
His wrath fell on Zena.
“Why on earth don’t you blow your nose?”
“She’s got a little cold, I think, dear.”
“No, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.”
Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treating
the ailments of others, could be so indifferent to the health of his own family. He always ridiculed
any suggestions of illness.
“I sneezed eight times before lunch,” said Zena importantly.
“Heat sneeze!” said John.
“It’s not hot,” said Terence. “The thermometer in the hall is 55.”
John got up. “Have we finished? Good, let’s get on. Ready to start, Gerda?”
“In a minute, John. I’ve just a few things to put in.”
“Surely you could have done that before. What have you been doing all the morning?”
He went out of the dining room fuming. Gerda had hurried off into her bedroom. Her anxiety to
be quick would make her much slower. But why couldn’t she have been ready? His own suitcase
was packed and in the hall. Why on earth—
Zena was advancing on him, clasping some rather sticky cards.
“Can I tell your fortune, Daddy? I know how. I’ve told Mother’s and Terry’s and Lewis’s and
Jane’s and Cook’s.”
“All right.”
He wondered how long Gerda was going to be. He wanted to get away from this horrible house
and this horrible street and this city full of ailing, sniffing, diseased people. He wanted to get to
woods and wet leaves—and the graceful aloofness of Lucy Angkatell, who always gave you the
impression she hadn’t even got a body.
Zena was importantly dealing out cards.
“That’s you in the middle, Father, the King of Hearts. The person whose fortune’s told is
always the King of Hearts. And then I deal the others face down. Two on the left of you and two
on the right of you and one over your head—that has power over you, and one under your feet—
you have power over it. And this one—covers you!
“Now.” Zena drew a deep breath. “We turn them over. On the right of you is the Queen of
Diamonds—quite close.”
“Henrietta,” he thought, momentarily diverted and amused by Zena’s solemnity.
“And the next one is the knave of clubs—he’s some quiet young man.
“On the left of you is the eight of spades—that’s a secret enemy. Have you got a secret enemy,
Father?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And beyond is the Queen of Spades—that’s a much older lady.”
“Lady Angkatell,” he said.
“Now this is what’s over your head and has power over you—the Queen of Hearts.”
“Veronica,” he thought. “Veronica!” And then, “What a fool I am! Veronica doesn’t mean a
thing to me now.”
“And this is under your feet and you have power over it—the Queen of Clubs.”
Gerda hurried into the room.
“I’m quite ready now, John.”
“Oh, wait, Mother, wait, I’m telling Daddy’s fortune. Just the last card, Daddy—the most
important of all. The one that covers you.”
Zena’s small sticky fingers turned it over. She gave a gasp.
“Oh—it’s the Ace of Spades! That’s usually a death—but—”
“Your mother,” said John, “is going to run over someone on the way out of London. Come on,
Gerda. Good-bye, you two. Try and behave.”
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