That settled it. I went to Hampstead the next day.
You can imagine the mood I was in, and you can imagine, perhaps, that I
hadn't any very definite plans. The weather was burningly hot, and at
the Tube station, to save myself the trouble of climbing the steep hill
for nothing, I rang up the End House to enquire if Helen were at home.
It was she herself who answered, and asked me quite politely what I
wanted. The abrupt query nonplussed me for the moment, and by the time I
was stammering something about a short talk, she was telling me that she
was just going out, and would it do another time?
"To-morrow?" I suggested.
She was sorry, but she was afraid to-morrow was booked up.
"The next day?"
She was sorrier than ever, but she was engaged then as well. "And on
Thursday I'm going down to Hindhead.... Friday might do, if you don't
mind a few others being here...."
I said it didn't matter, rang off suddenly, and walked up the hill to
the house. I thought then it had been a mistake to telephone, but
perhaps, after all, it wasn't. For it led to that curious meeting with
her on the shaded lawn beneath the elm-trees; she was lounging in a
basket-chair, reading the latest novel, and had quite obviously no more
intention of going out that afternoon than I had of being tricked by her
most ordinary of evasions.
She showed no embarrassment. Her smile was perfect as I crossed the lawn
towards her, and I could see those summer days at Hindhead written on
her face in tints of pink and brown. "Hello," she exclaimed, with casual
surprise. "I thought you were in town. Didn't you telephone just now?"
"Yes, but from a call-box down the road. I was on my way here."
"But why on earth didn't you tell me?"
"Would it have made any difference?"
"Of course it would ... I wouldn't have lied about going out if I'd
known you were so near. Only you said you wanted a talk, and I felt so
absolutely incapable of talking that I didn't think it worth while to
drag you all the way from the City."
"Nevertheless, now I'm here--if you don't mind--I _do_ want a talk with
you."
"All right. Let's have some tea first." She rang a small silver
hand-bell and then chattered languidly until the maid came. "Geoffrey's
having tea in his study with that surgeon man from Chicago. I hate their
scientific talk--that's why I came away."
I asked her if all the arrangements had been made for the operation, and
she told me it was to take place the following Wednesday in a
nursing-home.
"This afternoon is purely a social visit, I suppose?"
"Oh, purely social. They were discussing Abdominal Section when I
left.... Why don't you go and join them? I'm sure you'd find their
conversation much more enlivening than mine."
I said I would prefer hers, if she didn't object. Then the tea came, and
we touched on other matters. She was very flippant and cynical,
especially about the projected new house. "It's going to cost heaps of
money, and when I've lived in it a fortnight I know I shall long for a
flat in Dover Street.... I'd be bored with it already but for the excuse
it gives me to see Terry."
That was how and where we began.
Looking back on it all now I find it difficult--impossible in fact--to
remember the stages of the argument. Perhaps really this is because it
wasn't an argument so much as a disconnected series of questions and
answers. She was so overwhelmingly, so terrifyingly frank. It was
disconcerting; it gave one a peculiar feeling of insecurity, like
walking into an unknown house and finding all the doors closed but
unlocked.
And also, she didn't care. That, I can see, makes for frankness. Having
stormed her citadel, I was free to do as I chose; she offered not the
slightest resistance. I asked her cautious questions at first, and she
answered them; then I asked her bolder questions, and she answered them.
She didn't care. I said: "I may as well tell you outright that I think
you and Terry are both on very dangerous ground."
"I daresay we are," she answered. She took a cigarette from a dainty
little gold case, and lit it with langorous nonchalance.
"You don't mind me giving you my opinion?"
"Not in the least."
"Will you take any notice of it?"
"Probably not."
"You just intend to do whatever you like?"
"Yes."
"As regards Terry?"
"Yes."
"But--Helen--what _is_ it that you're going to do?"
"I'm not certain."
"You're not going to make a fool of him again?"
That stung her out of her somnambulist calmness. She answered, with
sharp passion: "Why do you say that? Why do you insult me? I didn't ask
you to come here--I even tried to stop you from coming. Why _did_ you
come? ... If you don't like what you're hearing, go away."
I told her quietly that I didn't like what I was hearing, but that I
wasn't going away.
Then she cried out: "Stay, then. Do whatever you like--I don't care.
I've made up my mind what I'm going to do, and I'll do it, right or
wrong.... And if you say a word to Terry, I'll deny everything and call
you a liar. _He'll_ believe me."
"You'd do _that_?"
"I'd do _anything_. I'm absolutely at the limit of unscrupulousness.
When _you_ want anything badly enough--if you ever do--perhaps _you'll_ be
the same...."