‘That would be divine. . . . I say, have I been asleep?’
‘Yes, for hours and hours. You looked rather sweet.’
‘And you sat there. . . . I say, Nina, you are getting
sentimental. . . . Where are we going?’
There were about a dozen people left at the party; that hard kernel of
gaiety that never breaks. It was about three o’clock.
‘Let’s go to Lottie Crump’s and have a drink,’ said Adam.
So they all got into two taxicabs and drove across Berkeley Square to
Dover Street. But at Shepheard’s the night porter said that Mrs Crump
had just gone to bed. He thought that Judge Skimp was still up with some
friends; would they like to join them? They went up to Judge Skimp’s
suite, but there had been a disaster there with a chandelier that one of
his young ladies had tried to swing on. They were bathing her forehead
with champagne; two of them were asleep.
So Adam’s party went out again, into the rain.
‘Of course, there’s always the Ritz,’ said Archie. ‘I believe the night
porter can usually get one a drink.’ But he said it in the sort of voice
that made all the others say, no, the Ritz was too, too boring at that
time of night.
They went to Agatha Runcible’s house, which was quite near, but she
found that she’d lost her latchkey, so that was no good. Soon some one
would say those fatal words, ‘Well, I think it’s time for me to go to
bed. Can I give any one a lift to Knightsbridge?’ and the party would be
over.
But instead a little breathless voice said, ‘Why don’t you come to _my_
house?’
It was Miss Brown.
So they all got into taxicabs again and drove rather a long way to Miss
Brown’s house. She turned on the lights in a sombre dining-room and gave
them glasses of whisky and soda. (She turned out to be rather a good
hostess, though over-zealous.) Then Miles said he wanted something to
eat, so they all went downstairs into a huge kitchen lined with every
shape of pot and pan and found some eggs and some bacon and Miss Brown
cooked them. Then they had some more whisky upstairs and Adam feel
asleep again. Presently Vanburgh said, ‘D’you mind if I use the
telephone? I must just send the rest of my story to the paper.’ Miss
Brown took him to a study that looked almost like an office, and he
dictated the rest of his column, and then he came back and had some more
whisky.
It was a lovely evening for Miss Brown. Flushed with successful
hospitality, she trotted from guest to guest, offering here a box of
matches, there a cigar, there a fruit from the enormous gilt dishes on
the sideboard. To think that all these brilliant people, whom she had
heard so much about, with what envy, from Miss Mouse, should be here in
papa’s dining-room, calling her ‘my dear’ and ‘darling’. And when at
last they said they really had to go, Miss Runcible said, ‘Well, _I_
can’t go, because I’ve lost my latchkey. D’you mind awfully if I sleep
here?’
Miss Brown, her heart in her mouth, but in the most natural way
possible, said, ‘Of course not, Agatha darling, that would be divine.’
And then Miss Runcible said, ‘How too divine of you, darling.’
_Rapture!_
At half-past nine the next morning the Brown family came down to
breakfast in the dining-room.
There were four quiet girls (of whom the Miss Brown who had given the
party was the youngest), their brother worked in a motor shop and had
had to get off early. They were seated at the table when their mama came
down.
‘Now, children,’ she said, ‘do try to remember to talk to your father at
breakfast. He was quite hurt yesterday. He feels out of things. It’s so
easy to bring him into the conversation if you take a little trouble,
and he does so enjoy hearing about everything.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ they said. ‘We do try, you know.’
‘And what was the Bicesters’ dance like, Jane?’ she said, pouring out
some coffee. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘It was just too divine,’ said the youngest Miss Brown.
‘It was _what_, Jane?’
‘I mean it was _lovely_, Mama.’
‘So I should think. You girls are very lucky nowadays. There were not
nearly so many dances when I was your age. Perhaps two a week in the
season, you know, but _none_ before Christmas ever.’
‘Mama.’
‘Yes, Jane.’
‘Mama. I asked a girl to stay the night.’
‘Yes, dear. When? We’re rather full up, you know.’
‘Last night, Mama.’
‘What an extraordinary thing to do. Did she accept?’
‘Yes, she’s here now.’
‘_Well_. . . . Ambrose, will you tell Mrs Sparrow to put on another
egg?’
‘I’m very sorry, my lady, Mrs Sparrow can’t understand it, but there
_are_ no eggs this morning. She thinks there must have been burglars.’
‘Nonsense, Ambrose, who ever heard of burglars coming into a house to
steal eggs?’
‘The shells were all over the floor, my lady.’
‘I see. That’s all, thank you, Ambrose. Well, Jane, has your guest eaten
all our eggs too?’
‘Well, I’m afraid she has . . . at least . . . I mean.’
At this moment Agatha Runcible came down to breakfast. She was not
looking her best really in the morning light.
‘Good morning, all,’ she said in Cockney. ‘I’ve found the right room at
last. D’you know, I popped into a study or something. There was a sweet
old boy sitting at a desk. He _did_ look surprised to see me. Was it
your papa?’
‘This is Mama,’ said Jane.
‘How are you?’ said Miss Runcible. ‘I say, I think it’s quite too sweet
of you to let me come down to breakfast like this.’ (It must be
remembered that she was still in Hawaiian costume.) ‘Are you sure you’re
not _furious_ with me? All this is really much more embarrassing for
_me_, isn’t it, don’t you think . . . or don’t you?’
‘Do you take tea or coffee?’ at last Jane’s mother managed to say.
‘Jane, dear, give your friend some breakfast.’ For in the course of a
long public life she had formed the opinion that a judicious offer of
food eased most social situations.
Then Jane’s father came in.
‘Martha, the most extraordinary thing! . . . I think I must be losing my
reason. I was in my study just now going over that speech for this
afternoon, when suddenly the door opened and in came a sort of dancing
Hottentot woman half-naked. It just said, “Oh, how shy-making,” and then
disappeared, and . . . oh . . .’ For he had suddenly caught sight of
Miss Runcible ‘. . . oh . . . how do you do? . . . How . . .’
‘I don’t think you have met my husband before.’
‘Only for a second,’ said Miss Runcible.
‘I hope you slept well,’ said Jane’s father desperately.
‘Martha never told me we had a guest. Forgive me if I appeared
inhospitable . . . I—er . . . Oh, why doesn’t somebody else say
something.’
Miss Runcible, too, was feeling the strain. She picked up the morning
paper.
‘Here’s something terribly funny,’ she said, by way of making
conversation. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘“_Midnight Orgies at No. 10._” My dear, isn’t that divine? Listen,
“_What must be the most extraordinary party of the little season took
place in the small hours of this morning at No. 10, Downing Street. At
about 4 a.m. the policemen who are always posted outside the Prime
Minister’s residence were surprised to witness_”—Isn’t this too
amusing—“_the arrival of a fleet of taxis, from which emerged a gay
throng in exotic fancy dress_”—How I should have loved to have seen it.
Can’t you imagine what they were like?—“_the hostess of what was
described by one of the guests as the brightest party the Bright Young
People have yet given, was no other than Miss Jane Brown, the youngest
of the Prime Minister’s four lovely daughters. The Honourable Agatha
. . ._” Why, what an extraordinary thing. . . . Oh, my God!’
Suddenly light came flooding in on Miss Runcible’s mind as once when, in
her débutante days, she had gone behind the scenes at a charity matinée,
and returning had stepped through the wrong door and found herself in a
blaze of flood-lights on the stage in the middle of the last act of
_Othello_. ‘Oh, my God!’ she said, looking round the Brown breakfast
table. ‘Isn’t that just too bad of Vanburgh. He’s always doing that kind
of thing. It really would serve him right if we complained and he lost
his job, don’t you think so, Sir James . . . or . . . don’t you?’
Miss Runcible paused and met the eyes of the Brown family once more.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘this really is all too bogus.’
Then she turned round and, trailing garlands of equatorial flowers, fled
out of the room and out of the house to the huge delight and profit of
the crowd of reporters and Press photographers who were already massed
round the historic front door.
_Chapter Five_
Adam woke up feeling terribly ill. He rang his bell once or twice, but
nobody came. Later he woke up again and rang the bell. The Italian
waiter appeared, undulating slightly in the doorway. Adam ordered
breakfast. Lottie came in and sat on his bed.
‘Had a nice breakfast, dear?’ she said.
‘Not yet,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve only just woken up.’
‘That’s right,’ said Lottie. ‘Nothing like a nice breakfast. There was a
young lady for you on the ’phone, but I can’t remember what it was she
said at the minute. We’ve all been upside down this morning. Such a
fuss. Had the police in, we have, ever since I don’t know what time,
drinking up my wine and asking questions and putting their noses where
they’re not wanted. All because Flossie must needs go and swing on the
chandelier. She never had any sense, Flossie. Well, she’s learned her
lesson now, poor girl. Whoever heard of such a thing—swinging on a
chandelier. Poor Judge What’s-his-name is in a terrible state about it.
I said to him it’s not so much the price of the chandelier, I said. What
money can make, money can mend, I said, and that’s the truth, isn’t it,
dear? But what I mind, I said, is having a death in the house and all
the fuss. It doesn’t do _any one_ any good having people killing
theirselves in a house like Flossie did. Now what may _you_ want, my
Italian queen?’ said Lottie as the waiter came in with a tray, the smell
of kippers contending with _nuit de Noel_ rather disagreeably.
‘Gentleman’s breakfast,’ said the waiter.
‘And how many _more_ breakfasts do you think he wants, I should like to
know? He’s had his breakfast hours ago while you were powdering your
nose downstairs, haven’t you, dear?’
‘No,’ said Adam, ‘as a matter of fact, no.’
‘There, do you hear what the gentleman says? _He_ doesn’t want two
breakfasts. Don’t stand there wiggling your behind at me. Take it away
quick or I’ll catch you such a smack. . . . That’s just the way—once
you get the police in every one gets all upset. There’s that boy brings
you two breakfasts and I dare say there’s some poor fellow along the
passage somewhere who hasn’t had any breakfast at all. You can’t get
anywhere without a nice breakfast. Half the young fellows as come here
now don’t have anything except a _cachet Faivre_ and some orange juice.
It’s not right,’ said Lottie, ‘and I’ve spoken to that boy about using
scent twenty times if I’ve spoken once.’
The waiter’s head appeared, and with it another wave of _nuit de Noel_.
‘If you please, madam, the inspectors want to speak to you downstairs,
madam.’
‘All right, my little bird of paradise, I’ll be there.’
Lottie trotted away and the waiter came sidling back bearing his tray of
kippers and leering at Adam with a horrible intimacy.
‘Turn on my bath, will you, please,’ said Adam.
‘Alas, there is a gentleman asleep in the bath. Shall I wake him?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The waiter stood about fingering the brass knobs at the end of the bed,
smiling ingratiatingly. Then he produced from under his coat a gardenia,
slightly browned at the edges. (He had found it in an evening coat he
had just been brushing.)
Would the signor perhaps like a buttonhole? . . . Madame Crump was so
severe . . . it was nice sometimes to be able to have a talk with the
gentlemen . . .
‘No,’ said Adam. ‘Go away.’ For he had a headache.
The waiter sighed deeply, and walked with pettish steps to the door;
sighed again and took the gardenia to the gentleman in the bathroom.
Adam ate some breakfast. No kipper, he reflected, is ever as good as it
smells; how this too earthly contact with flesh and bone spoiled the
first happy exhilaration; if only one could live, as Jehovah was said to
have done, on the savour of burnt offerings. He lay back for a little in
his bed thinking about the smells of food, of the greasy horror of fried
fish and the deeply moving smell that came from it; of the intoxicating
breath of bakeries and the dullness of buns. . . . He planned dinners of
enchanting aromatic foods that should be carried under the nose, snuffed
and thrown to the dogs . . . endless dinners, in which one could
alternate flavour with flavour from sunset to dawn without satiety,
while one breathed great draughts of the bouquet of old brandy. . . . Oh
for the wings of a dove, thought Adam, wandering a little from the point
as he fell asleep again (every one is liable to this ninetyish feeling
in the early morning after a party).
Presently the telephone by Adam’s bed began ringing.
‘Hullo, yes.’
‘Lady to speak to you. . . . Hullo, is that you, Adam?’
‘Is that Nina?’
‘How are you, my darling?’
‘_Oh, Nina. . . ._’
‘My poor sweet, I feel like that, too. Listen, angel. You haven’t
forgotten that you’re going to see my papa to-day, have you . . . or
have you? I’ve just sent him a wire to say that you’re going to lunch
with him. D’you know where he lives?’
‘But you’re coming too?’
‘Well, no. I don’t think I will, if you don’t mind. . . . I’ve got
rather a pain.’
‘My dear, if you _knew_ what a pain I’ve got. . . .’
‘Yes, but that’s different, darling. Anyway, there’s no object in our
both going.’
‘But what am I to say?’
‘_Darling_, don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well. Just ask him for
some money.’
‘Will he like that?’
‘Yes, darling, of course he will. Why will you go _on_? I’ve got to get
up now. Good-bye. Take care of yourself. . . . Ring me up when you get
back and tell me what papa said. By the way, have you seen the paper
this morning?—there’s something so funny about last night. _Too_ bad of
Van. Good-bye.’
While Adam was dressing, he realized that he did not know where he was
to go. He rang up again. ‘By the way, Nina, where does your papa live?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s a house called Doubting, and it’s all falling
down really. You go to Aylesbury by train and then take a taxi. They’re
the most expensive taxis in the world, too. . . . Have you got any
money?’
Adam looked on the dressing-table: ‘About seven shillings,’ he said.
‘My dear, that’s not enough. You’ll have to make poor papa pay for the
taxi.’
‘Will he like that?’
‘Yes, of course, he’s an angel.’
‘I wish you’d come too, Nina.’
‘Darling, I told you. I’ve got such a pain.’
Downstairs, as Lottie had said, everything was upside down. That is to
say that there were policemen and reporters teeming in every corner of
the hotel, each with a bottle of champagne and a glass. Lottie, Doge,
Judge Skimp, the Inspector, four plain-clothes men and the body were in
Judge Skimp’s suite.
‘What is _not_ clear to me, sir,’ said the Inspector, ‘is what
_prompted_ the young lady to swing on the chandelier. Not wishing to
cause offence, sir, and begging your pardon, was she . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ said Judge Skimp, ‘she was.’
‘_Exactly_,’ said the Inspector. ‘A clear case of misadventure, eh, Mrs
Crump? There’ll have to be an inquest, of course, but I think probably I
shall be able to arrange things so that there is no mention of your name
in the case, sir . . . well, that’s very kind of you, Mrs Crump, perhaps
just one more glass.’
‘Lottie,’ said Adam, ‘can you lend me some money?’
‘Money, dear? Of course. Doge, have you got any money?’
‘I was asleep at the time myself, mum, and was not even made aware of
the occurrence until I was called this morning. Being slightly deaf, the
sound of the disaster . . .’
‘Judge What’s-your-name, got any money?’
‘I should take it as a great privilege if I could be of any assistance
. . .’
‘That’s right, give some to young Thingummy here. That all you want,
deary? Don’t run away. We’re just thinking of having a little
drink. . . . No, not that wine, dear, it’s what we keep for the police.
I’ve just ordered a better bottle if my young butterfly would bring it
along.’
Adam had a glass of champagne, hoping it would make him feel a little
better. It made him feel much worse.
Then he went to Marylebone. It was Armistice Day, and they were selling
artificial poppies in the streets. As he reached the station it struck
eleven and for two minutes all over the country every one was quiet and
serious. Then he went to Aylesbury, reading on the way Balcairn’s
account of Archie Schwert’s party. He was pleased to see himself
described as ‘the brilliant young novelist’, and wondered whether Nina’s
papa read gossip paragraphs, and supposed not. The two women opposite
him in the carriage obviously did.
‘I no sooner opened the paper,’ said one, ‘than I was on the ’phone _at
once_ to all the ladies of the committee, and we’d sent off a wire to
our Member before one o’clock. We know how to make things hum at the
Bois. I’ve got a copy of what we sent. Look. _Members of the Committee
of the Ladies’ Conservative Association at Chesham Bois wish to express
their extreme displeasure at reports in this morning’s paper of midnight
party at No. 10. They call upon Captain Crutwell_—that’s our Member;
such a nice stamp of man—_strenuously to withhold support to Prime
Minister_. It cost nearly four shillings, but, as I said at the time, it
was not a moment to spoil the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar. Don’t you
agree, Mrs Ithewaite?’
‘I do, indeed, Mrs Orraway-Smith. It is clearly a case in which a
mandate from the constituencies is required. I’ll talk to our chairwoman
at Wendover.’
‘Yes, do, Mrs Ithewaite. It is in a case like this that the woman’s vote
can count.’
‘If it’s a choice between my moral judgement and the nationalization of
banking, I prefer nationalization, if you see what I mean.’
‘Exactly what I think. Such a terrible example to the lower classes,
_apart from everything_.’
‘That’s what I mean. There’s our Agnes, now. How can I stop her having
young men in the kitchen when she knows that Sir James Brown has parties
like that at all hours of the night. . . .’
They were both wearing hats like nothing on earth, which bobbed and
nodded as they spoke.
At Aylesbury Adam got into a Ford taxi and asked to be taken to a house
called Doubting.
‘Doubting ’All?’
‘Well, I suppose so. Is it falling down?’
‘Could do with a lick of paint,’ said the driver, a spotty youth. ‘Name
of Blount.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Long way from here Doubting ’All is. Cost you fifteen bob.’
‘All right.’
‘If you’re a commercial, I can tell you straight it ain’t no use going
to ’im. Young feller asked me the way there this morning. Driving a
Morris. Wanted to sell him a vacuum cleaner. Old boy ’ad answered an
advertisement asking for a demonstration. When he got there the old boy
wouldn’t even look at it. Can you beat that?’
‘No, I’m not trying to sell him anything—at least not exactly.’
‘Personal visit, perhaps.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’
Satisfied that his passenger was in earnest about the journey, the
taxi-driver put on some coats—for it was raining—got out of his seat
and cranked up the engine. Presently they started.
They drove for a mile or two past bungalows and villas and timbered
public houses to a village in which every house seemed to be a garage
and filling station. Here they left the main road and Adam’s discomfort
became acute.
At last they came to twin octagonal lodges and some heraldic gate-posts
and large wrought-iron gates, behind which could be seen a broad sweep
of ill-kept drive.
‘Doubting ’All,’ said the driver.
He blew his horn once or twice, but no lodge-keeper’s wife, aproned and
apple-cheeked, appeared to bob them in. He got out and shook the gates
reproachfully.
‘Chained-and-locked,’ he said. ‘Try another way.’
They drove on for another mile; on the side of the Hall the road was
bordered by dripping trees and a dilapidated stone wall; presently they
reached some cottages and a white gate. This they opened and turned into
a rough track, separated from the park by low iron railings. There were
sheep grazing on either side. One of them had strayed into the drive. It
fled before them in a frenzied trot, stopping and looking round over its
dirty tail and then plunging on again until its agitation brought it to
the side of the path, where they overtook it and passed it.
The track led to some stables, then behind rows of hothouses, among
potting-sheds and heaps of drenched leaves, past nondescript
outbuildings that had once been laundry and bakery and brewhouse and a
huge kennel where once some one had kept a bear, until suddenly it
turned by a clump of holly and elms and laurel bushes into an open space
that had once been laid with gravel. A lofty Palladian façade stretched
before them and in front of it an equestrian statue pointed a baton
imperiously down the main drive.
‘’Ere y’are,’ said the driver.
Adam paid him and went up the steps to the front door. He rang the bell
and waited. Nothing happened. Presently he rang again. At this moment
the door opened.
‘Don’t ring twice,’ said a very angry old man. ‘What do you want?’
‘Is Mr Blount in?’
‘There’s no Mr Blount here. This is Colonel Blount’s house.’
‘I’m sorry. . . . I think the Colonel is expecting me to luncheon.’
‘Nonsense. I’m Colonel Blount,’ and he shut the door.
The Ford had disappeared. It was still raining hard. Adam rang again.
‘Yes,’ said Colonel Blount, appearing instantly.
‘I wonder if you’d let me telephone to the station for a taxi?’
‘Not on the telephone. . . . It’s raining. Why don’t you come in? It’s
absurd to walk to the station in this. Have you come about the vacuum
cleaner?’
‘No.’
‘Funny, I’ve been expecting a man all the morning to show me a vacuum
cleaner. Come in, do. Won’t you stay to luncheon?’
‘I should love to.’
‘Splendid. I get very little company nowadays. You must forgive me for
opening the door to you myself. My butler is in bed to-day. He suffers
terribly in his feet when it is wet. Both my footmen were killed in the
war. . . . Put your hat and coat here. I hope you haven’t got wet. . . .
I’m sorry you didn’t bring the vacuum cleaner . . . but never mind. How
are you?’ he said, suddenly holding out his hand.
They shook hands and Colonel Blount led the way down a long corridor,
lined with marble busts on yellow marble pedestals, to a large room full
of furniture, with a fire burning in a fine rococo fireplace. There was
a large leather-topped walnut writing-table under a window opening on to
a terrace. Colonel Blount picked up a telegram and read it.
‘I’d quite forgotten,’ he said in some confusion. ‘I’m afraid you’ll
think me very discourteous, but it is, after all, impossible for me to
ask you to luncheon. I have a guest coming on very intimate family
business. You understand, don’t you? . . . To tell you the truth, it’s
some young rascal who wants to marry my daughter. I must see him alone
to discuss settlements.’
‘Well, I want to marry your daughter, too,’ said Adam.
‘What an extraordinary coincidence. Are you sure you do?’
‘Perhaps the telegram may be about me. What does it say?’
‘“_Engaged to marry Adam Symes. Expect him luncheon. Nina._” Are you
Adam Symes?’
‘Yes.’
‘My dear boy, why didn’t you say so before, instead of going on about a
vacuum cleaner? How are you?’
They shook hands again.
‘If you don’t mind,’ said Colonel Blount, ‘we will keep our business
until after luncheon. I’m afraid everything is looking very bare at
present. You must come down and see the gardens in the summer. We had
some lovely hydrangeas last year. I don’t think I shall live here
another winter. Too big for an old man. I was looking at some of the
houses they’re putting up outside Aylesbury. Did you see them coming
along? Nice little red houses. Bathroom and everything. Quite cheap,
too, and near the cinematographs. I hope you are fond of the
cinematograph too? The Rector and I go a great deal. I hope you’ll like
the Rector. Common little man rather. But he’s got a motor car, useful
that. How long are you staying?’
‘I promised Nina I’d be back to-night.’
‘That’s a pity. They change the film at the Electra Palace. We might
have gone.’
An elderly woman servant came in to announce luncheon. ‘What is at the
Electra Palace, do you know, Mrs Florin?’
‘Greta Garbo in _Venetian Kisses_, I think, sir.’
‘I don’t really think I like Greta Garbo. I’ve tried to,’ said Colonel
Blount, ‘but I just don’t.’
They went in to luncheon in a huge dining-room dark with family
portraits.