I got her a taxi, and she went, and I didn't see or speak to her again
for years. That is the sort of thing which, when one writes it down,
gives one a sense of bewilderment. Such a little, paltry quarrel to have
caused such a long estrangement! I wrote down in my diary on the evening
of the day it happened: "Met H. in Fleet Street. Tiff over T." I was so
sure, at the time, that it was only a tiff. I had to leave London the
next morning for a week's reporting job in South Wales, and I never
doubted that by the time I returned the quarrel would be forgotten.
Yet it wasn't. I remember in particular one hot August afternoon shortly
after I came back. Severn had invited me to lunch with him at White's,
and during the meal he talked and discussed in his usual brilliant way.
But afterwards, while we mellowed ourselves with port, he said suddenly:
"I say, Hilton, old chap, what on earth have you been saying to my
wife?"
How could I tell him _anything_, much less _everything_? I laughed to
gain time to think, and then I asked him rather stammeringly what
exactly he meant. He answered: "It's rather queer. She seems to have
taken a sudden dislike to you.... I'm giving a farewell party next
week--just a little dinner before we go out of town. I suppose you got
the invitation?"
"Yes. I was intending to reply to it to-night."
"Accepting?"
"Well--yes."
He filled up my glass and said: "Can't understand it a bit--why she's
taken up such an extraordinary attitude. But she won't have you--won't
have you up to the house at any price--not even for this party. Says
she'll walk out if you come.... Awkward, eh?"
Of course I suggested that I should consider the invitation cancelled,
and after formally protesting, he agreed. (It was what he had intended
me to suggest, I could see.) "Decent of you not to mind," he said. "If
you ever marry, you'll find it's always best to humour a woman when she
begins to take absurd dislikes.... We're going for a month to the
Canaries--perhaps that'll do her good."
We talked for a while on other topics, and then, just before we
separated, he said: "By the way--not been making love to Helen or
anything like that, have you?"
I assured him that I hadn't, and he laughed. "Thought I'd just ask you,
that's all. Don't know that I'd blame you altogether if you _had_
been--she's a wonderful woman, only capricious--absolutely
capricious.... Anyhow, no need to worry about it--probably just an
attack of nerves. You and I can always meet here when we want, can't
we? ... Dam silly creatures, women, eh? Why _do_ we marry them? ..."