II

Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.

It was a Saturday afternoon—the Symmingtons always had their bridgeparties on a Saturday, because the office was shut then.

There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves,Miss Griffith, Mr. Pye, Miss Barton and a Colonel Appleton whom we hadnot yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles dis-tant. He was a perfect specimen of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age,liked playing what he called a “plucky game” (which usually resulted inimmense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was sointrigued by Joanna that he practically never took his eyes off her thewhole afternoon.

I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractivething that had been seen in Lymstock for many a long day.

When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the children’s governess, was huntingfor some extra bridge scorers in an ornate writing desk. She glided acrossthe floor with them in the same celestial way I had first noticed, but thespell could not be cast a second time. Exasperating that it should be so—awaste of a perfectly lovely form and face. But I noticed now only tooclearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the wayshe showed her gums when she laughed. She was, unfortunately, one ofyour prattling girls.

“Are these the ones, Mrs. Symmington? It’s ever so stupid of me not toremember where we put them away last time. It’s my fault, too, I’m afraid.

I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had gotcaught, and I ran out and what with one thing and another I must havejust stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These aren’t the right ones, I seenow, they’re a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? I’m tak-ing the kiddies to Long Barrow so there won’t be any noise.”

A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joanna’s eye. She was laughing. I staredat her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.

We settled down to bridge.

I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone inLymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player andwas quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual wo-men, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Herhusband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr. Pye can bestbe described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding.

Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table withMrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil ontroubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three otherplayers at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play “aplucky game.” Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridgeplayer I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously.

She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strengthof her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong handand was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were.

Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. “I like a goodgame of bridge with no nonsense—and I don’t play any of these rubbishyconventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, it’s only agame!” It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.

Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetful-ness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing,two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Sym-mington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and Iturned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

“Oh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten thatMegan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

“I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “MissHolland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery teatoday. I forgot you weren’t with them.”

Megan nodded.

“That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual andthere were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

“My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are al-ways shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re prop-erly grown up.”

I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlikegesture.

“But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.

“Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite achild still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.” Shelaughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain ba-bies.”

“I can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward ifone had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.”

“Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Sym-mington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Sym-mington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, aselfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

“My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been try-ing to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things onecan learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she mighttry and learn shorthand and typing.”

The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again atthe bridge table:

“I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you go-ing to give a dance for her?”

“A dance?” Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. “Oh, no,we don’t do things like that down here.”

“I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.”

“Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard norI play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up — Oh, Megan will findplenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see,did I deal? Two No Trumps.”

As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the acceler-ator pedal that made the car leap forward:

“I feel awfully sorry for that girl.”

“Megan?”

“Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.”

“Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.”

“Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should ima-gine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbsthe pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’s a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—andshe is sensitive.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think she is.”

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

“Bad luck for you about the governess.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said with dignity.

“Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time youlooked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I wasquite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked atthat remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutelyGod’s gift to a sick man.”

“Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.”

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

“So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit ofskirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left outcompletely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some womenhave and others haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she onlysays ‘Foul weather’ so attractive that every man within range wants tocome over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providencemakes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. OneAphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goesastray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain- facedcreature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, ‘I can’tthink what the men see in her. She isn’t even good-looking!’”

“Have you quite finished, Joanna?”

“Well, you do agree, don’t you?”

I grinned. “I’ll admit to disappointment.”

“And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall backupon Aimée Griffith.”

“God forbid,” I said.

“She’s quite good-looking, you know.”

“Too much of an Amazon for me.”

“She seems to enjoy her life, all right,” said Joanna. “Absolutely disgust-ingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bathevery morning.”

“And what are you going to do for yourself?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.”

“Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.” Joanna heaved up anot very convincing sigh.

“I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten daysyou’ll be saying, ‘Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.’”

“You think I’m completely fickle,” said Joanna.

“When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too glad that youshould be.”

“You never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.”

“Possibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all I’ve heard, geniuses arepeople to be heartily disliked. One thing, you won’t find any geniusesdown here.”

Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.

“I’m afraid not,” she said regretfully.

“You’ll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,” I said. “He’s the only unat-tached male in the place. Unless you count old Colonel Appleton. He waslooking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.”

Joanna laughed.

“He was, wasn’t he? It was quite embarrassing.”

“Don’t pretend. You’re never embarrassed.”

Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.

She said then:

“There may be something in that idea of yours.”

“What idea?”

Joanna replied:

“I don’t see why any man should deliberately cross the street to avoidme. It’s rude, apart from anything else.”

“I see,” I said. “You’re going to hunt the man down in cold blood.”

“Well, I don’t like being avoided.”

I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then Ioffered my sister a piece of advice.

“Let me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isn’t any of your tame whin-ing artistic young men. Unless you’re careful you’ll stir up a hornet’s nestabout your ears. That man could be dangerous.”

“Oo, do you think so?” demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleas-ure at the prospect.

“Leave the poor devil alone,” I said sternly.

“How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?”

“All you women are alike. You harp on one theme. You’ll have SisterAimée gunning you, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“She dislikes me already,” said Joanna. She spoke meditatively, but witha certain satisfaction.

“We have come down here,” I said sternly, “for peace and quiet, and Imean to see we get it.”

But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.