“I think we’d better renounce,” said Belinda shakily.
“Renounce?” cried Pomeroy. “Not in this suiting. It’s the first villa
I’ve been left at Biarritz, an’ the next one mayn’t be so nice.”
“It’s—it’s very nice, is it?” said Forsyth.
“Perfectly charming,” said Belinda. “It’s got the most glorious
position.”
“Almost sacred,” said Pomeroy. “Five minutes from everywhere.”
“I meant the views,” flashed Belinda. “You can see for miles.”
“Quite that,” said Pomeroy. “And what about six bathrooms, Forsyth? Six.
All tiled.”
“It’s the last word in luxury,” agreed Belinda. “And there’s practically
nothing to be done. When that stuff on the edge of the terrace has been
taken away——”
“What stuff?” said Pomeroy suspiciously. “D’you mean the balustrade?”
“Well, it isn’t really a balustrade.” She addressed herself to the
lawyer. “It’s a hideous sort of parapet, Mr. Forsyth. It doesn’t go with
anything and it just ruins the whole _ensemble_.”
“My dear Belinda,” said Pomeroy, “you can’t take that away. It mayn’t be
a work of art, but it’s pretty useful. You must have a rail or
something.”
“Why?”
“There’s a twelve-foot drop,” said Pomeroy. “That’s why. You can’t have
a depth like that unflagged. Supposing one of your guests came in a bit
lively—by starlight.”
“I don’t entertain drunkards.”
“Well, I protest,” said Pomeroy. “I—I like the balustrade.”
“Unfortunately I don’t,” said Belinda in a freezing tone. “That’s why I
shall have it removed. When you come you can fix up a life-line—for
night-work.”
Forsyth cleared his throat.
“I’m afraid any structural alterations would have to be agreed, Miss
Seneschal.”
“But it isn’t a structural alteration.”
“My dear child,” said Pomeroy, raising his eyes.
Belinda regarded him furiously. Then she averted her gaze and tilted her
chin.
“Mr. Forsyth,” she said, “the house is ours. If it was mine I should put
in a caretaker at once. But I suppose I mustn’t do that.”
Forsyth turned to Pomeroy.
“Have you any objection?” he said.
“None,” said Pomeroy, “provided the caretaker has instructions to take
orders from me.”
Miss Seneschal gasped.
“I don’t think you quite understand,” she said. “I should be paying the
caretaker.”
“Exactly,” said Pomeroy. “And when I rolled up with my baggage she’d
send for the police.”
“She’d have instructions to permit you to enter.”
“She’d have ten minutes to clear out,” was the violent reply. “I’m not
going to be followed about my own house by a glassy-eyed sleuth in
somebody else’s pay.”
Speechless with indignation, Belinda crowded lightning into her
beautiful eyes.
“I know a very good man,” continued Pomeroy, apparently addressing the
cornice. “If you like I’ll send him to see you. I shall tell him that
you are his mistress and——”
“That,” said Belinda, “would be misleading. No nominee of yours will
enter _Les Iles d’Or_.”
“Look here,” said Forsyth. “By the merest chance I happen to be going to
Biarritz in six days’ time. If you like I’ll install a caretaker and
have an inventory made. Copies to each of you, of course. I’ll find a
good agent and tell him to pay the caretaker and keep an eye on the
house. He’d better report to you both once a month. When you propose to
reside you’ll let him know and he’ll make the necessary arrangements. If
anything has to be done at any time he’ll write to you both, and your
two signatures will be his authority to go ahead.”
“Forsyth,” said Pomeroy piously, “what should we do without you?”
“You really are an angel,” said Miss Seneschal. “Now help us out with
the dates.”
The solicitor picked up a pencil and began to draw lines upon a pad.
“Whenever,” he said slowly, “I deal with a Will I always feel that I am
treading venerable ground. A Will is an essentially human document. It
is the spokesman of the dead. . . . Man can take nothing out of this
world. Therefore one day he sits down and puts upon record—secret
record to whom, when his wealth is left masterless, he desires it to
pass. Sometimes his directions are rational: sometimes they seem unkind:
sometimes they are unexpected. But, as the spokesman says, so it must be
done. We cannot reason with the spokesman—perhaps that’s as well. But,
what is more to the point, the spokesman cannot reason with us. Its
principal is dead. . . . Well, because it cannot reason, it is to my
mind our duty to reason with ourselves on its behalf. _Noblesse oblige._
We that are quick owe it to the pitiful dead. We must look to see what
is written—between the lines. . . . Here is a bare bequest. _Why was it
made?_ Because the old man liked you—liked you both. He hoped it would
bring you happiness—joint happiness. He assumed, of course, that you
would marry. He thought about you when you were gone. It gave him rare
pleasure to picture his two young friends enjoying his home. Therefore
he left it you. . . . Well, you’re not going to marry. There goes half
his dream. I’m sure for his memory’s sake you won’t shatter the other
half.”
There was a long silence.