TENSION
When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the
little marble terrace reading _Count Florio and Phillis K._ and smoking
cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia
always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to
get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late.
Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he
implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and
particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then
he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him,
petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own.
"But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong."
"So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should
have more individuality."
"What an awful word," she said.
"What's the matter with the word?"
"Nothing. It's so long."
"You're talking nonsense, Valentia."
"Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say
there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her."
"I know. But there needn't be nothing else."
"Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."
"Oh, all right! Very well! Do as you like," said Harry. "It seems a
curious way to treat a guest: to go out when you expect him, and then
the moment you come in to make an excuse to leave him alone again. But
please yourself!"
He took up his book and turned away.
Valentia went into the house, to her room, and sat down opposite the
looking-glass with a sigh. It was at moments like these that she
sometimes thought, with a slight reaction, of Romer. Romer was never
capricious, never irritable, never trying. It was true that he rarely
answered her except in monosyllables, but yet she knew that he delighted
in and tacitly encouraged her fluency. He did not respond to every idea
she expressed as Harry did (when Harry was in a good temper), but she
knew she had no better audience. His extreme quietness might be
admitted, occasionally, to cast a slight gloom, but negatively what
enormous advantages his silence had! Romer never scolded, never laid
down the law; never thought it necessary to give her long, minute,
detailed accounts of his impressions of art, or life, or literature;
never insisted on pointing out, as if it were a matter of life and
death, precisely where he differed in his opinions of a book, a play, or
an incident, from the criticisms in the daily papers. Nor did he refer
to some annoying past incident half a dozen times a day as a sealed
subject. He had other qualities. He could take tickets, he could sign
cheques (and even seemed to like doing it). He could see about things.
He wasn't selfish. Yes, Valentia thought, when she saw Harry at his
worst, that perhaps she didn't really quite appreciate her husband. How
irritating Harry would have been in that capacity!
Daphne came in, and Valentia went on, as usual, with her thoughts aloud.
"Wouldn't Harry be a maddening husband?" she said as she brushed out her
hair.
"Oh! Would he? In what way?"
"He'd be so selfish, so obtrusive--he'd always want you to do exactly
what he liked, just when he liked, and never when he didn't, or when you
liked, I mean."
"How could he like you to do what he liked when he didn't like? That
would be expecting too much. I don't see what you mean, Val."
"I only mean that when he's in a bad temper Harry's tiresome, and if he
were married he'd be in one oftener."
"Oh dear! Are most men bad-tempered when they're married, Val?"
"Yes. Nearly always."
"_What?_ Then, will Cyril ..."
"Cyril's a pleasant, easy-going boy, but, as you won't have enough
money, he's sure to be bad-tempered at times."
"Then aren't married men bad-tempered when they have plenty of money,
Val?"
"Oh, if they have a great deal they're awfully bad-tempered, too;
because, you see, then they lose it, or if they don't do that they're
always trying to enjoy themselves with it and finding the enjoyment
flat, and then they blame their wives. Besides, anyhow, having enough
money leads to all sorts of complications."
"Oh dear! Then what do you advise?" Daphne hung on Valentia's words,
respecting her superior knowledge and experience.
"Oh, I advise enough, anyhow. It can't make you happy, but it can avoid
certain troubles. Love in a cottage is only all right for the week-end
when you have a nice house in London as well, and a season ticket or a
motor, and electric light and things, and a telephone. Oh, by the way,
our telephone here is eating its head off. We never use it. Go and ring
up to the grocer, not to forget to send the things, will you, dear? He's
got a telephone, too--the only tradesman in the village who has."
"What things isn't he to forget to send?"
"How should I know?--the usual things. He never does forget, but it
looks well to remind him, and the 'phone needs exercise."
"All right. But before I go, Val--suppose you can't have the sort of
love-in-a-cottage you mean, and there's no fear of your being so rich
that it makes you miserable, what is the best thing to do?"
"Why, I suppose the old business in the old novels, a competence with
the man of your heart, would do all right."
Daphne looked pleased.
"For six months, anyhow. Or a year or two, perhaps," Val added.
"Oh dear!" cried Daphne again, as she left the room.
"Poor pet," Val murmured to herself. "I hope I'm not teaching her to be
cynical."