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II
At dinner that night, Henrietta was put next to David, and from the end of the table Lucy’s delicate
eyebrows telegraphed not a command—Lucy never commanded—but an appeal.
Sir Henry was doing his best with Gerda and succeeding quite well. John, his face amused, was
following the leaps and bounds of Lucy’s discursive mind. Midge talked in rather a stilted way to
Edward, who seemed more absentminded than usual.
David was glowering and crumbling his bread with a nervous hand.
David had come to The Hollow in a spirit of considerable unwillingness. Until now, he had
never met either Sir Henry or Lady Angkatell, and disapproving of the Empire generally, he was
prepared to disapprove of these relatives of his. Edward, whom he did not know, he despised as a
dilettante. The remaining four guests he examined with a critical eye. Relations, he thought, were
pretty awful, and one was expected to talk to people, a thing which he hated doing.
Midge and Henrietta he discounted as empty-headed. This Dr. Christow was just one of these
Harley Street charlatans—all manner and social success—his wife obviously did not count.
David shifted his neck in his collar and wished fervently that all these people could know how
little he thought of them! They were really all quite negligible.
When he had repeated that three times to himself he felt rather better. He still glowered but he
was able to leave his bread alone.
Henrietta, though responding loyally to the eyebrows, had some difficulty in making headway.
David’s curt rejoinders were snubbing in the extreme. In the end she had recourse to a method she
had employed before with the tongue-tied young.
She made, deliberately, a dogmatic and quite unjustifiable pronouncement on a modern
composer, knowing that David had much technical and musical knowledge.
To her amusement the plan worked. David drew himself up from his slouching position where
he had been more or less reclining on his spine. His voice was no longer low and mumbling. He
stopped crumbling his bread.
“That,” he said in loud, clear tones, fixing a cold eye on Henrietta, “shows that you don’t know
the first thing about the subject!”
From then on until the end of dinner he lectured her in clear and biting accents, and Henrietta
subsided into the proper meekness of one instructed.
Lucy Angkatell sent a benignant glance down the table, and Midge grinned to herself.
“So clever of you, darling,” muttered Lady Angkatell as she slipped an arm through Henrietta’s
on the way to the drawing room. “What an awful thought it is that if people had less in their heads
they would know better what to do with their hands! Do you think Hearts or Bridge or Rummy or
something terribly terribly simple like Animal Grab?”
“I think David would be rather insulted by Animal Grab.”
“Perhaps you are right. Bridge, then. I am sure he will feel that Bridge is rather worthless, and
then he can have a nice glow of contempt for us.”
They made up two tables. Henrietta played with Gerda against John and Edward. It was not her
idea of the best grouping. She had wanted to segregate Gerda from Lucy and if possible from John
also—but John had shown determination. And Edward had then forestalled Midge.
The atmosphere was not, Henrietta thought, quite comfortable, but she did not quite know from
whence the discomfort arose. Anyway, if the cards gave them anything like a break, she intended
that Gerda should win. Gerda was not really a bad Bridge player—away from John she was quite
average—but she was a nervous player with bad judgment and with no real knowledge of the
value of her hand. John was a good, if slightly overconfident player. Edward was a very good
player indeed.
The evening wore on, and at Henrietta’s table they were still playing the same rubber. The
scores rose above the line on either side. A curious tensity had come into the play of which only
one person was unaware.
To Gerda this was just a rubber of Bridge which she happened for once to be quite enjoying.
She felt indeed a pleasurable excitement. Difficult decisions had been unexpectedly eased by
Henrietta’s overcalling her own bids and playing the hand.
Those moments when John, unable to refrain from that critical attitude which did more to
undermine Gerda’s self-confidence than he could possibly have imagined, exclaimed: “Why on
earth did you lead that club, Gerda?” were countered almost immediately by Henrietta’s swift,
“Nonsense, John, of course she had to lead the club! It was the only possible thing to do.”
Finally, with a sigh, Henrietta drew the score towards her.
“Game and rubber, but I don’t think we shall make much out of it, Gerda.”
John said: “A lucky finesse,” in a cheerful voice.
Henrietta looked up sharply. She knew his tone. She met his eyes and her own dropped.
She got up and went to the mantelpiece, and John followed her. He said conversationally: “You
don’t always look deliberately into people’s hands, do you?”
Henrietta said calmly: “Perhaps I was a little obvious. How despicable it is to want to win at
games!”
“You wanted Gerda to win the rubber, you mean. In your desire to give pleasure to people, you
don’t draw the line at cheating.”
“How horribly you put things! And you are always quite right.”
“Your wishes seemed to be shared by my partner.”
So he had noticed, thought Henrietta. She had wondered herself, if she had been mistaken.
Edward was so skilful—there was nothing you could have taken hold of. A failure, once, to call
the game. A lead that had been sound and obvious—but when a less obvious lead would have
assured success.
It worried Henrietta. Edward, she knew, would never play his cards in order that she, Henrietta,
might win. He was far too imbued with English sportsmanship for that. No, she thought, it was
just one more success for John Christow that he was unable to endure.
She felt suddenly keyed up, alert. She didn’t like this party of Lucy’s.
And then dramatically, unexpectedly—with the unreality of a stage entrance, Veronica Cray
came through the window.
The french windows had been pushed to, not closed, for the evening was warm. Veronica
pushed them wide, came through them and stood there framed against the night, smiling, a little
rueful, wholly charming, waiting just that infinitesimal moment before speaking so that she might
be sure of her audience.
“You must forgive me—bursting in upon you this way. I’m your neighbour, Lady Angkatell—
from that ridiculous cottage Dovecotes—and the most frightful catastrophe has occurred!”
Her smile broadened—became more humorous.
“Not a match! Not a single match in the house! And Saturday evening. So stupid of me. But
what could I do? I came along here to beg help from my only neighbour within miles.”
Nobody spoke for a moment, for Veronica had rather that effect. She was lovely—not quietly
lovely, not even dazzlingly lovely—but so efficiently lovely that it made you gasp! The waves of
pale shimmering hair, the curving mouth—the platinum foxes that swathed her shoulders and the
long sweep of white velvet underneath them.
She was looking from one to the other of them, humorous, charming!
“And I smoke,” she said, “like a chimney! And my lighter won’t work! And besides there’s
breakfast—gas stoves—” She thrust out her hands. “I do feel such a complete fool.”
Lucy came forward, gracious, faintly amused.
“Why, of course—” she began, but Veronica Cray interrupted.
She was looking at John Christow. An expression of utter amazement, of incredulous delight,
was spreading over her face. She took a step towards him, hands outstretched.
“Why, surely—John! It’s John Christow! Now isn’t that too extraordinary? I haven’t seen you
for years and years and years! And suddenly—to find you here!”
She had his hands in hers by now. She was all warmth and simple eagerness. She half-turned
her head to Lady Angkatell.
“This is just the most wonderful surprise. John’s an old old friend of mine. Why, John’s the first
man I ever loved! I was crazy about you, John.”
She was half laughing now—a woman moved by the ridiculous remembrance of first love.
“I always thought John was just wonderful!”
Sir Henry, courteous and polished, had moved forward to her.
She must have a drink. He manoeuvred glasses. Lady Angkatell said:
“Midge, dear, ring the bell.”
When Gudgeon came, Lucy said:
“A box of matches, Gudgeon—at least, has Cook got plenty?”
“A new dozen came in today, m’lady.”
“Then bring in half a dozen, Gudgeon.”
“Oh, no, Lady Angkatell—just one!”
Veronica protested, laughing. She had her drink now and was smiling round at everyone. John
Christow said:
“This is my wife, Veronica.”
“Oh, but how lovely to meet you.” Veronica beamed upon Gerda’s air of bewilderment.
Gudgeon brought in the matches, stacked on a silver salver.
Lady Angkatell indicated Veronica Cray with a gesture and he brought the salver to her.
“Oh, dear Lady Angkatell, not all these!”
Lucy’s gesture was negligently royal.
“It’s so tiresome only having one of a thing. We can spare them quite easily.”
Sir Henry was saying pleasantly:
“And how do you like living at Dovecotes?”
“I adore it. It’s wonderful here, near London, and yet one feels so beautifully isolated.”
Veronica put down her glass. She drew the platinum foxes a little closer round her. She smiled
on them all.
“Thank you so much! You’ve been so kind.” The words floated between Sir Henry, Lady
Angkatell, and for some reason, Edward. “I shall now carry home the spoils. John,” she gave him
an artless, friendly smile, “you must see me safely back, because I want dreadfully to hear all
you’ve been doing in the years and years since I’ve seen you. It makes me feel, of course,
dreadfully old.”
She moved to the window, and John Christow followed her. She flung a last brilliant smile at
them all.
“I’m so dreadfully sorry to have bothered you in this stupid way. Thank you so much, Lady
Angkatell.”
She went out with John. Sir Henry stood by the window looking after them.
“Quite a fine warm night,” he said.
Lady Angkatell yawned.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured, “we must go to bed. Henry, we must go and see one of her pictures.
I’m sure, from tonight, she must give a lovely performance.”
They went upstairs. Midge, saying goodnight, asked Lucy:
“A lovely performance?”
“Didn’t you think so, darling?”
“I gather, Lucy, that you think it’s just possible she may have some matches in Dovecotes all
the time.”
“Dozens of boxes, I expect, darling. But we mustn’t be uncharitable. And it was a lovely
performance!”
Doors were shutting all down the corridor, voices were murmuring goodnights. Sir Henry said:
“I’ll leave the window for Christow.” His own door shut.
Henrietta said to Gerda: “What fun actresses are. They make such marvellous entrances and
exits!” She yawned and added: “I’m frightfully sleepy.”
Veronica Cray moved swiftly along the narrow path through the chestnut woods.
She came out from the woods to the open space by the swimming pool. There was a small
pavilion here where the Angkatells sat on days that were sunny but when there was a cold wind.
Veronica Cray stood still. She turned and faced John Christow.
Then she laughed. With her hand she gestured towards the leaf-strewn surface of the swimming
pool.
“Not quite like the Mediterranean, is it, John?” she said.
He knew then what he had been waiting for—knew that in all those fifteen years of separation
from Veronica she had still been with him. The blue sea, the scent of mimosa, the hot dust—
pushed down, thrust out of sight, but never really forgotten. They all meant one thing—Veronica.
He was a young man of twenty-four, desperately and agonizingly in love, and this time he was not
going to run away.
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