“I really don’t know,” he said. “I got a bit rattled once or twice. You
know. After bein’ congratulated by some strong, earnest mortal with a
pre-war hand. Enough to make anyone suspicious. And I asked one or two
coves who’d done it. All they said was that it all depended on the
girl. . . . But I’m very happy, Jean. I’ve no complaints. If you ask me,
I think we’ve got on damned well. We’ve been married a solid year and
we’ve never had a first-class row.”
“That,” said Jean, expelling a cloud of smoke, “is because we don’t
care.”
“Oh, rot,” said Oliver stoutly. He felt for a match. “Rot. At least, I
can’t speak for you, but I certainly care.”
“Up to a point—yes. So do I. But we don’t mean anything to each other.”
“You mean something to me,” protested Pauncefote.
“So does your bath before dinner. You’re accustomed to me—that’s all.
If you went out to-night, I should wear black for a year. It’s the
fashion. But I should be fed to the teeth to think that my green lace
dress was going spare. . . . And if I popped off to-morrow, you’d curse
the fact that you couldn’t go to Ascot. And you’d soon be putting out
feelers to find out whether it’d be decent to show up at Goodwood and
saying to yourself, ‘She would have liked me to go.’”
“I—I don’t think I should,” faltered Pauncefote.
“Why not?” said Jean. “You wouldn’t feel any grief. We don’t mean
anything.”
Oliver frowned. Then he took his pipe from his mouth and regarded its
bowl.
“Assuming you’re right,” he said, “—mark you, I don’t admit it—but,
assuming you’re right, why is it?”
Jean shrugged her shining shoulders.
“_C’est la mode_,” she said. “It’s the age, the time—what you will.
Married love’s out of fashion—that’s all.”
“I loved you before,” said Pauncefote.
“In a way you did,” said Jean, staring upon the cornice. “And I loved
you. Then we got married, and it was all over. You ought to count more
with me—now.” She sat up there, with a laugh, and waved a small hand.
“My dear, you count less. ‘Less’? You don’t count at all—now.
We’ve—we’ve pulled our fire-cracker. We pulled it a year ago.” She
threw herself back on the pillows, inhaled deeply and let the smoke
steal out of her beautiful mouth. “Don’t think I’m getting at you. I’m
not at all. I’m just making faces at Fate.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m disappointed. When one was married I thought one got down
to things. I thought one found the emotions that poets write
about—love, hope, joy, grief, hate. They’re the foundation of life. I
brushed against them all when I was engaged. I imagine you did too—in a
sort of way.”
Pauncefote shifted upon his chair.
“We’re much better out of it,” he said. “Give me a quiet life. Emotion’s
all very well, but it’s sticky stuff.”
“It isn’t fashionable,” said Jean.
“For a very good reason,” said her husband. “It isn’t convenient. We’re
just beginning to appreciate the wisdom of eliminating mental
inconvenience. Look at Dickens, Thackeray, and the rest. Yarn after yarn
founded on human emotion. Sighs and yells and tears because someone’s
got stuck. That’s what you get for playing with fire. Now it’s dawning
on people that use their brains that if you let sleeping dogs lie you
won’t be chewed. An’ so we go quietly along—_without looking for
trouble_. Hang it all, Jean, I think we’ve done very well. We don’t get
in each other’s way. We——”
“We should,” said Jean. “We ought to. That’s my point. Marriage means
getting in each other’s way. If you don’t, you might as well not be
married. One’s style ought to be cramped. Not necessarily unpleasantly
cramped, but cramped. If you were just going to drive and a priceless
girl came up and asked you the time—well, she’d ’ve got in your way,
but that wouldn’t worry you. In fact, if you could square your partner,
you’d sling your driver away and take her into the pine-woods to look
for clocks.”
“I shouldn’t at all,” said Pauncefote uneasily. “I should direct her
to——”
“No doubt—if you were playing with me,” said Jean dryly. “Appearances
have to be kept up. Never mind. The point is that one’s style can be
agreeably cramped. Marriage can cramp it pleasantly or unpleasantly, but
it ought to cramp it. Look at us. We aren’t affected at all. We don’t
care. If we did, we shouldn’t dare show it. It—it isn’t done. . . .
Life’s like ale—good, strong ale. History will show you that. But we
don’t get further than the froth. That’s all right when you’re a child,
but if you’re not going to get down to the liquor when you’re married,
when are you?”
“My dear,” said her husband, “why worry? I’ve drunk some damned bad
beer.”
“Haven’t you drunk any good?”
Oliver sighed.
“Of course,” he said, “if you’re not happy, Jean——”
“I’m not. Neither are you. We don’t know what it means.”
“I’m comfortable,” said Pauncefote. “And that’s something.”
“Listen. When you die, the tankard of Life is taken away from you. Well,
supposing then you found out that the ale you’d always given a miss was
the most glorious liquor you’d ever dreamed of . . . Wouldn’t you want
to kick yourself?”
“Weather permitting,” said Pauncefote, “_ça va sans dire_.”
“And, good or bad, don’t you fancy you’d feel a bit cheap beside people
who’d drunk their whack?”
Oliver pulled his moustache.
“Sort of ‘What did you do in the Great War Daddy?’ idea?”
“Exactly,” said Jean. “Well, don’t you think wedlock’s the time? It
seems the obvious moment for our little crowd. ‘Marry and settle down.’
That’s a time-honoured phrase. ‘Settle down.’ What to?”
“Drinkin’ the ale, I suppose.”
“I imagine so,” said Jean. “Look at the words of the Service—‘love and
cherish.’ I take it they mean something.”
“They did when they were written,” said Oliver. “But times have changed,
Jean. I’m ready to love an’ cherish, but—but the occasion doesn’t
arise.”
“What you mean is, it isn’t done. . . . I kiss you, of course, but then
I kiss other men. And you kiss other girls. It’s the fashion. We don’t
love each other at all; we love ourselves. We don’t cherish each other;
we each take blinking good care to look after ourselves. It’s the
fashion. . . . It’s the fashion to live together, and so we do. Bar
that, we mightn’t be married.” She set her cigarette in a tray, laced
her pointed fingers and put them behind her head. “Why am I wearing this
frock? Because Pat Lafone said that he loved me in black.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows.
“Did he really?” he said.
“Why shouldn’t he?” said his wife. “There’s nothing wrong in that. What
_is_ wrong is that I put it on to please him. You needn’t worry. That’s
as far as it’s gone. Besides, he wasn’t there, so I’ve been stung. The
point is we mightn’t be married. In theory, I should care for you and
nobody else. And you for me—exclusively. In practice, if you discount
habit—I’m accustomed to you, you know—you come third on the list. I
care first for myself, then other attractive men, finally my husband.”
Oliver rose to his feet and laid down his pipe.
“That’s pretty straight, any way,” he said.
“You know it’s the same with you. The tragedy is we don’t care. . . . If
you cleared out and left me, that might bring me up short. I think it
probably would. I should come down to Things then—with the hell of a
jar. The ale’d be bitter then.”
“Jean, why dig up this ground? It’s not particularly sweet. You say you
don’t care about me. Well, let it go. I’m sorry you don’t, but——”
“Why will you blink the facts? Why can’t you be frank, as I am? I won’t
tell anyone.”
“I don’t care who you tell, but——”
“Of course you do,” said Jean, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.
“More. You care so much that you won’t give yourself away—even to me.
Sentiment’s bad form. Besides, you’re self-conscious—awkward. This
discussion’s inconvenient. You’d be thankful if I’d drop it. . . . Why
don’t you take the plunge? It won’t involve you. Drop the mask for ten
minutes and face the rotten facts. . . . If you were a waster by nature
I should have saved my breath.”
There was a long silence.