I wondered what she wanted me for. I had met her perhaps a dozen times
during the last two years, but she had never taken any notice of me, and
I had never been to her house. I knew that men were scarce at teatime
and a hostess, short of them at the last moment, might think that a
young medical student was better than nothing; but the wording of the
telegram hardly suggested a party.
The surgeon for whom I dressed was prosy and verbose. It was not till
past five that I was free and then it took me a good twenty minutes to
get down to Chelsea. Mrs. Barton Trafford lived in a block of flats on
the Embankment. It was nearly six when I rang at her door and asked if
she was at home. But when I was ushered into her drawing room and began
to explain why I was late she cut me short.
“We supposed you couldn’t get away. It doesn’t matter.”
Her husband was there.
“I expect he’d like a cup of tea,” he said.
“Oh, I think it’s rather late for tea, isn’t it?” She looked at me
gently, her mild, rather fine eyes full of kindness. “You don’t want any
tea, do you?”
I was thirsty and hungry, for my lunch consisted of a scone and butter
and a cup of coffee, but I did not like to say so. I refused tea.
“Do you know Allgood Newton?” asked Mrs. Barton Trafford, with a gesture
toward a man who had been sitting in a big armchair when I was shown in,
and now got up. “I expect you’ve met him at Edward’s.”
I had. He did not come often, but his name was familiar to me and I
remembered him. He made me very nervous and I do not think I had ever
spoken to him. Though now completely forgotten, in those days he was the
best-known critic in England. He was a large, fat, blond man, with a
fleshy white face, pale blue eyes, and graying fair hair. He generally
wore a pale blue tie to bring out the colour of his eyes. He was very
amiable to the authors he met at Driffield’s and said charming and
flattering things to them, but when they were gone he was very amusing
at their expense. He spoke in a low, even voice, with an apt choice of
words: no one could with more point tell a malicious story about a
friend.
Allgood Newton shook hands with me and Mrs. Barton Trafford, with her
ready sympathy, anxious to put me at my ease, took me by the hand and
made me sit on the sofa beside her. The tea was still on the table and
she took a jam sandwich and delicately nibbled it.
“Have you seen the Driffields lately?” she asked me as though making
conversation.
“I was there last Saturday.”
“You haven’t seen either of them since?”
“No.”
Mrs. Barton Trafford looked from Allgood Newton to her husband and back
again as though mutely demanding their help.
“Nothing will be gained by circumlocution, Isabel,” said Newton, a
faintly malicious twinkle in his eye, in his fat precise way.
Mrs. Barton Trafford turned to me.
“Then you don’t know that Mrs. Driffield has run away from her husband.”
“What!”